Walking in Fear
by Adam the Red
Summary: A near death experience leads Dawn to question her nature and she soon embarks on a dangerous quest for answers that risks her very soul.
1. Prologue

Walking in Fear

Prologue

There was nothing to it, she recited again to herself as she passed down the dim corridor. The silence shrieked in her ears like a heavy metal band, unending, maddening, drowning in sorrow. She had done this to herself, there was only one way to solve it, to save them; to face what she had created.

There was no sideways motion here, no escaping, no hope. Just moving forward, terror but especially sorrow pulling at her, squeezing her heart and holding her back, but she strode forward regardless. Her footsteps, sounding small and weak to her ears, marked each step; slower and more cowardly than she had intended. She could feel her breath in her throat, fearful and shallow, her nimble fingers trembled as she made weak fists. It was somewhere ahead.

The dim light from each doorway cast alternating patterns of light and dark across her path, across her steps, her face. She shuddered, again seeing its eyes as she looked down at it, in unrestrained anguish and pleading.

"_Save me,_" it had begged, _she_ had begged. But fear had overridden her then, she had given in to it, and had sent the thing to a hell worse than any conceivable. Now it was back. No. Now _she_ was back, killing, laughing, knowing she would come for her. And so she came.

Dawn walked down the hallway, towards her fear. The walk stretched time into forever. Her building terror, her quivering breath and clammy palms the only indication she was approaching her destination. She had tried to come to terms with her own death; that nauseatingly unnatural conclusion which gnawed at her insides with each step. In the stale, cold air of this ungodly corridor, and the fear which pervaded it, she had tried to rationalize it to herself. This was her doing, and if she died - no, _when_ she died to finish it, she might be able to stand the thought of herself again.

It was only her body which she had failed to convince. As far as it was concerned, she should be running as hard and fast away from this place as possible, or at the very least finding a high place from which to fling herself. But not this. Anything but this- this living hell of indescribable agony to which she was headed.

Before her body could quite find the motive to end itself then and there, she had arrived. The cold metal of the door opened without a sound and the light of a crescent moon illuminated the room in shades of black and silver.

With no motive but fear itself, she found herself wanting to vomit. The stale air had suddenly become too intense to inhale, the cold too much for goose bumps to quell.

The still figure standing by the window said nothing as Dawn approached, her stomach quivering, no longer breathing at all. She gripped the hem of her shirt to keep her hands from trembling.

This was the epitome of horror. With a now furiously trembling hand, she reached out, a slight whimper escaping her. Before she could touch the shoulder, the figure turned, its rotting, moldering face the parody-maker of all death Dawn had yet seen.

"_Daughter,_" the corpse of Joyce mouthed.

Dawn awoke to the sounds of her own screams. Before even Buffy could awake and rush into her sister's room, Dawn's screams had degenerated into panicked and sorrow-stricken sobs. She clutched her bunched covers, soaked with her own cold sweat, her breath ragged and shallow, the fear from her dream following her to the waking world. The sorrow of her mother's death driving into her heart like an auger.

Only when her older sister's arms wrapped around her, hugging her, holding her close, stroking her hair, uttering words which tried to penetrate the nightmare, did Dawn's sobbing diminish to mere whimpers. She trembled ceaselessly.

When a light had been turned on and Buffy and Dawn were sitting comfortably in Dawn's bed, snuggled tight, some minutes later, Buffy broke the comforting silence.

"Dawnie, tell me about your dream," to the resulting silence she added, "mom?" She felt Dawn's head, nestled up to her shoulder, nod. Buffy gave her an additional squeeze.

It had been two and a half weeks since Joyce had died of her brain aneurysm, and Buffy and Dawn had both been plagued by varying degrees of nightmares. None so far, however, had led to this.

"Do you want me to sleep here tonight?" Buffy asked softly.

Dawn shook her head and sniveled. "No. Thanks, I'm fine now." She sat up, trying to brush her hair from her tear stained face. "Thanks," she added again.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Buffy consoled her. With another hug and a kiss to her forehead, Buffy went to the door. "Get some sleep." And the light went out, leaving the room lit in tones of black and silver.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_Two years later..._

By the light of the lamp on the table, Dawn turned a page in the novel. _Daughter_. The word arose from the page like a phoenix. Dawn snapped the book closed. Her chest felt tight. She blinked, unsure of where the uneasy feeling had originated.

"Dawn?" Xander glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "You okay?" He cocked his head, looking at the spine of the book she held. "Jane Austin too much for you?" Without waiting for a response he shuddered. "I know the feeling, I had nightmares about it for weeks."

"'Bout what?" Willow strode into earshot, holding a stack of leather-bound books she had just finished compiling from the back of the Magic Box.

"Austin." Xander responded.

"Powers?" Willow asked, eyebrows raised.

"Jane." Xander corrected, eliciting a shudder from the redheaded witch.

"English Lit. doesn't discriminate, unfortunately," Dawn informed them, ignoring the uneasy feeling she had succeeded in suppressing. "Jane for everyone."

"Spread the horror," nodded Xander "education should be outlawed. We doesn't need no learnings."

"Well if you'd like a change," offered Willow, setting the stack on the table, "maybe you could help me go through this reference material."

"Ah, reference material," Xander smiled, "second only to the index in excitement."

"I like research," Dawn argued, selecting the top volume. For effect, she blew the dust off the spine. "Even if I _am_ researching... _The Soul and Eternities in Hell_ by.. Some name beginning with an H..." she squinted, "I think."

"What's this for, if I might inquire?" Xander asked, frowning, selecting the next tome.

"Well," began Will hopefully, "what with all this talk of... miscellaneous characters retrieving souls from who knows where, I realized just how little we actually know about the mystical mechanism which comes into play at death, specifically, that which determines the destination of the soul in question."

"According to this," Dawn responded, engrossed in her book, "'The soul is an entity, devoid of moral or ethical responsibilities, but which becomes the indestructible cartouche of the actions and inactions of the individual.'"

"See?" Will offered, "learning, fun, yes?"

Xander squinted, his head to one side. "What's a cartouche?"

"'Furthermore,'" Dawn continued, the enthusiasm initially still present, but waning, "'the soul is that entity which, upon the moment of death, fulfills its single active responsibility, which is to review the life it has observed and allow the individual to experience the..." she paused for a moment, her voice losing any semblance of good humor, "...to experience the hell that is the inevitable result of all human action.'"

"Wow," Xander's eyes were melodramatically wide. "What a tragic individual. I wonder where he is now?"

"Th-that's only one interpretation," Willow argued, "listen to this," she read from the book open in front of Xander. "'The soul: that which transgresses the body and abides in a state of eternal bliss or sorrow, depending on the nature of the individual who possessed it.' See? Not so bad."

"Yeah but look at this," Xander pointed to the following sentence, "'The soul is a fragile form, partial to demonic or otherwise evil influence. If an individual's life is marred by an act of pure and vivid evil, the soul will be condemned upon the individual's death to serve in an eternal hell of equally pure and vivid agony.' Lovely." Xander grimaced. "They know just how I like my agony."

"'A-Acts of evil which result in damnation..." continued Willow, a disturbed edge in her voice, "include adultery, theft, murder of any kind-' this guy's a quack," she objected. "Who would consider theft a damnable act of pure and vivid evil?"

"Wait, it get's better," Xander grinned now that his book was giving everyone the willies. "'...murder of any kind, suicide or attempted suicide, the practicing of demonic rituals or the summoning of spirits of less than divine origin,'" he chuckled "'including the practicing or condoning of witchcraft.'"

"Hey!" Willow closed the book before the grinning Xander could continue. "That's not funny!"

"What're you yelling at me for? The quack has spoken! _Fear_ the words of the quack!"

Dawn, meanwhile was reading further in her own faded reference. Finally she spoke up. "'The death of the individual marks the irreversible condemnation of the soul to a perpetual state of regret for things left undone and shame for things ill done, intentional or otherwise. The varying degrees of human hell range from the incomparable agony experienced by the soul of a form of utter evil, to the quiet sadness experienced by the soul of an innocent child-' this guy is sick!" Dawn winced, looking up from the book. "He thinks children who die go to hell because they will forever regret not living to adulthood, which, by the way, would just lead them to a worse hell for not having died younger."

"There's like a whole flock of quacks in here," Xander mused. "Is that the right term? Flock of quacks? Maybe gaggle."

"Gag is more like it," Dawn corrected, reading more. "It says here 'the only souls to escape the misery to come are those who have achieved spiritual enlightenment while alive, and have come to be at peace with that which they have done and will never do. Unborn children also do not experience hell, as it is not within their capacity to understand the nature of what they have lost. All things demonic which are allotted a mortal span are inherently without soul, thus their deaths result in their return from the nothingness from which they sprang.'"

"Who sprang from the whatnow?" Buffy walked in, a towel over her shoulders, her sleeveless shirt showing the smallest bit of exertion sweat. Giles, not far behind, looked considerably more exerted.

"We're exploring the views of the soul in a book written by a quack, spelled with an H." Xander informed them. "So far, we've gathered that everyone's going to hell, except foetuses and Buddha."

"Is that so?" Buffy, having spent several months dead, inquired. "I wouldn't mind having a discussion with this quacky H guy."

"There's more," Dawn said, insistently, "'the last category of living entities, Specters, are defined as all living, corporeal forms of natural tendencies other than those of evil, but devoid of souls. These beings, though few and far between, include repentant demons, humans who have been robbed of their souls, and those who have been conjured.'" She stopped, silent and reflective for a moment. The others held their breaths, waiting to jump in with 'he's a quack,' but Dawn continued. "'These beings are allowed the same fate as their evil cousins-'" she broke, just for an instant, "'-and are condemned to nothingness upon the instant of their death.'"

There was a very pointed, eggshell silence for a moment or so. Finally Xander spoke up. "Speaking of quacks, has anyone seen Spike?"

"Dawn," Buffy slid a hand around her sister's shoulder. "I hope you're not basing anything on this nutbag."

"Buffy is right," Giles affirmed. "It would be in the poorest form as a researcher to base anything on solely one source. You would need first to check the author's credentials, to see if he is... what we might call a quack. Then cross reference his material with other source material before drawing any conclusions."

"Not really helping," Buffy warned. She turned back to the teenager, still reading the text. "You know better than anyone the junk that any old wanna-be prophet can jot down in a leather bound book for kicks. Besides, I guarantee there are a dozen contradicting texts in this stack alone," she patted the still hefty tower of dusty leather.

"You don't have to worry about me," Dawn managed an entirely convincing dismissive laugh. "You've been to heaven and back and you're a total jerk."

Buffy took the jibe in turn. "Well, then you've got nothing to worry about. Except my wrath, if I ever catch you going through my closet again."

"As soon as it contains at least one article of my clothing," Dawn defended, "it becomes joint territory."

Just then, the small bell above the door chimed as Spike strolled in. "Evening," he said, "just thought you blokes might want to know, there's a large spider-like thing roamin' n' ransackin'... the whole deal." He sighed contentedly, drawing his shoulders back and angling his head to one side with a satisfying crack. "Well, I'll be off then, just given' you lot fair warning." And he headed out, raising the collar on his black leather duster. "Ooh, chilly in'it?" And he was gone again into the night.

"Spider-like thing?" Xander asked. "I think that's new."

"New or old, it's splatter on the newspaper when I get to it," Buffy dashed away from the table, leaving her towel in Giles's capable hands. When she had retrieved a sizable axe, she headed for the door, paused and looked at the bunch still sitting by the bookshelf. "Are you coming or not?"

"Sure!" Xander leapt to his feet, dashing for the weapons trunk, Giles likewise followed.

"Will?" Buffy asked, eyebrows up.

"Mmm... not me, thanks, I hate spiders. So crawly, and in this case, large and terrifying." She shuddered and returned to reading.

"Suit yourself," And the three armed, dashed out the door.

Dawn, meanwhile, knowing full well she wasn't even invited, reached for another book.

"Dawn, listen to this;" Willow was at her computer screen, the preferred method of research. "It says here that the soul is an inherently good being, requiring nothing short of full demonic conversion to taint it. That's not so depressing, now is it?"

"Not as depressing as this: 'those beings created through the manipulation of magical essences for purposes either good or evil are non-entities in the eyes of fate and are not the subject of prophecies, as they do not host souls, and they are therefore not players in the acts of life, good or evil.'" She had tried to keep the sarcasm in her voice throughout, but it had failed somewhere without her realizing it. Having been created herself as a human form to hide an ancient power, the Key, from a hell god, Dawn saw an unhappy line of reasoning forming in her own mind. She was aware that Willow was now standing at her shoulder, squeezing through her thick sweater. She continued to read. "'Furthermore, the children of Specters, having been sired by one or more beings without souls, will likewise be Specters, and will fall from consequence, playing no part in the battle between the forces of darkness and those opposing them.'" Not quite sure how to react to something like that, Dawn remained silent. This was the third independent author to describe Specters in a similar manner. Dawn had a feeling that without some sort of intervention, the tiny bubble of uncertainty about her own nature which resided inside her, would soon swell to a gaping chasm that would swallow her whole.

Sensing this, Willow shrank to her knees, facing Dawn as she sat, staring blankly into the witch's eyes. "Dawn, listen to me. You are unique. There are just as many wackos out there who would say that witches all burn for eternity in a fiery pit, in fact there are probably more references to that than to Specters. Considering I've never even heard of a Specter-"

Dawn listened to the speech, but did not hear most of it. She was too busy thinking about an image which had just forced its way into her mind. An old lady, sitting in a floral chair, knitting. A fire crackled in a fireplace. A young woman and two small boys were in the room also. The boys were playing by their grandmother's feet. They looked up into their grandmother's eyes, and as she looked down at them, as she looked into their tiny innocent eyes...

"Don't worry about me," Dawn dismissed, not as convincingly as before. "I don't believe a word of it. Before this there was a chapter on the uses of earthworms in curing the plague," she lied. As if to give her words credence, she closed the book before her and stood. Willow also stood.

"I think I'm gonna get some air," Dawn started towards the door.

"Do you think you should be out there while that big nasty is on the loose?" Willow asked as Dawn opened the door.

"I'm not afraid of spiders," she smiled, turning back to Willow, "besides, I'm just going to stand right outside the door-"

"_Dawn!"_ The distant warning from Buffy came too late as the long hair covered leg thrust its way into the lit store, pinning Dawn against the door. It was followed by a hideous head covered with beady eyes, glittering with iridescent mucus. The mandibles on the lower part of the head closed deftly around the stunned teenager and before she could utter more than a squeak of fright it swept her out into the street.

"Dawn!" Without even pausing at the weapons chest, Willow stumbled around the table and raced out into the street after her. By the time she had located the hulking mass of hairy spider, Buffy had raced down the street on the other side and was on top of it. She clambered up its back like it was a circus elephant and at first tried taking swings at its thick knobby abdomen hide, but when it ducked its head low and Buffy heard Willow shriek, she raced towards the creature's head and lodged the axe firmly between a pair of eyes.

The spider hissed and staggered to one side. Buffy had to squat low on its back to keep from falling off, but raised the axe for a second, third and fourth stroke. By the time its legs had given out, it was impaled on many sides by both Xander and Giles's weapons. It released a final quivering hiss and then was silent.

Buffy sighed in satisfaction and easily jumped down off the hairy carcase, only to see Willow crouching by a prone figure. Instantly, Buffy raced forward, her heart pounding as she heard Willow's quiet crying. She knelt to the side of Dawn's motionless body, the four dagger sized spider fang marks in her shoulder and chest already filled with blood. But the blood was not flowing.

Buffy couldn't breath. She didn't know how they all got back into the Magic Box, but she knew she never took her eyes off her sister's unblinking gaze. An unbearably painful memory welled up inside her. Joyce was lying on the couch at an awkward angle, her face pale, her eyes locked in an unblinking stare with the ceiling. "_Mommy?_"

Then there were candles. Giles and Xander were in the shadows, watching. Everywhere there were candles, flicking, dancing. Dawn lay among them, in the center. Buffy knelt to one side, Willow to the other. Willow chanted. She had managed to stop crying, managed to keep her voice steady enough to get the words out.

Buffy listened but she heard almost none of it. Something about Osiris and a boat. Something about darkness. Buffy at last closed her eyes to make the dry stinging go away. She felt the heat of a tear running down each cheek. It wasn't supposed to go this way. Buffy was supposed to look after her little sister. To protect her. But with her eyes closed, she felt none of the comfort of her own mind, none of the power or inner strength she possessed was there when she called it. She was a little girl, alone, with no family. She hadn't even said _I love you_. With a hand across her face, among the dancing candles and shadows as Willow chanted, farther away than she had ever been, Buffy cried. She doubled over taking Dawn's hand in hers, clasping it tightly. Warming it with her cheek, with her tears.

Finally, as the pitch of Willow's voice grew to a desperate entreaty to the gods, the candles flared brightly and it sank into Buffy's consciousness what Willow was trying to do. She took in a breath, to say something, anything to her best friend, when the hand squeezed back.

Buffy jumped, nearly knocking over a candle as Dawn's eyes fluttered open, her wounds gone, her breath regular. Without hesitation or consideration for her sister's condition, Buffy lifted Dawn to her by the shoulders and hugged her tight.

"_Don't you **ever** do that again!_" She sobbed as she embraced tighter.

"I'm sorry," Dawn managed weakly, with all the breath she could draw in Buffy's tight embrace. "I won't, I'm sorry," she closed her eyes and hugged back.

Willow sighed heavily and collapsed into Xander's arms. Giles went about blowing the candles out.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Hey, I'd like to daze away to a place no one has known,_

_In a state of mind I could call mine, that only I could own,_

_Where I could hum a tune any time I choose, and there's no such thing as time_

_Where I feel no pain, just calm and sane, what a place for one to find..._

The music played softly in the car as Giles drove Buffy and Dawn home. Buffy was still hugging her sister around her shoulders as the car was intermittently lit by approaching street lights, casting dynamic shadows across their faces.

"Where did you go?" Dawn asked, almost as an afterthought, as she stared across her sister to the palm tree trunks as they passed by.

"Hmm?" Buffy responded.

"When you died." She added softly, "You said something then, I can't remember now. Where did you go?"

"I don't know," Buffy presently amended her story. She recalled having told Spike she had been in heaven until she had been resurrected. Now, however, she was not entirely sure she wanted that description open to interpretation.

"Describe it." Dawn closed her eyes, a peaceful expression on her periodically illuminated face. "It sounded nice."

"Well," Buffy began, deciding nothing but the truth would do, and getting comfortable beside her sister. "It was warm, and dark," she began, closing her eyes. "There was a kind of white noise that came from inside your own eardrums, like the sound of your own blood pumping, but not in beats, just constant."

"Mmm." Dawn responded, snuggling tighter against her sister.

"But I suppose the most important thing about it was the feeling." Buffy reminisced.

"What'd it feel like?" Her sister asked, trying to complete her mental picture.

"I felt loved. Like everyone I ever knew was there, and loved me, with no responsibilities or priorities. Just to be there. To be loved."

"Sounds perfect," Dawn said almost inaudibly. _I wish I could have seen it._

"If we forget about tomorrow, then it's just like now," Buffy laid her cheek on Dawn's head.

"I love you," Dawn almost whispered as she drifted off towards sleep.

"I love you too," her sister answered, no louder.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Giles circled the block again on the cool starless night.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The next day, Dawn finished her cereal with casual disregard for her dirty dishes, leaving them in the sink, as always, for Buffy to clean. But as she looked out the window into the back yard, saw the wind in the bushes, a small change occurred in her brain. The tiniest tick within that struggle her mind had been warring since the previous night's adventure.

It was a subtle change. Even she was not aware of its implications as she attended school that day, though any who knew her might have said she was slightly distracted.

That afternoon, however, she arrived home and strode down into the basement of the Summers home to find Spike asleep on his cot. Without any idea of why, she pulled the wall manacles from their hanging positions and attached them gingerly to his wrists.

The final clink of metal and careless brush of her hair across his face served to wake him. She jumped back instantly.

"Right now," he frowned, suppressing a yawn. "What you up to, nibblet?" He glanced at the manacles now secure on his wrists. "Now, hang on just a minute. What's going on here? Get these bloody things off, I'm in no mood for games."

"I need you to answer some questions," Dawn said, after a moment to analyze precisely what she indeed had done. "And I can't let you tell Buffy."

"Well, she's bound to find me down here sooner or later. I'm not above a good yell."

"I don't care about later. I need some answers now." Her tone was uncharacteristically calm but hard.

Spike glared hard into her. "Are you alright?" There was a pause. "Dawn, what are you about?"

"I'm fine, and I'm sorry I chained you up, but I need time. Now answer and I'll leave."

"What do you want to know." He quickly added, "and I'm not promising anything."

"Before you had a soul." She spoke the question that had been forming in her mind all day. "Before; what did it feel like?"

"What do you mean what did it feel like? I was a bloody vampire, literally."

"You still are."

"I was Big Bad, I killed people." He frowned at her. "Little girls, by the hundreds. You know that."

"But you're still a vampire. How do you know you have a soul? What does it feel like?" The earnest of her questions piqued Spike's curiosity.

"What's this all about anyways? I've been snoozin here all day. Did something happen last night?"

"No. Now answer. You were a human, with a soul, then you got sired, lost your soul, then you got your soul back. You have perspective." She insisted. "What's the common link? What does your soul feel like?"

"Like a bloody vice grip, alright?" He hissed at her, angrily, stalking towards her, to the end of his chains. "Like a tight iron grip around my bloody heart, squeezin' all the time squeezin. Every time I see a person like you, or smell the scent of.. Bloody _food_ prancin' about, it's what's squeezin the urge to feed, squeezin the need to taste your blood on my lips."

She tried and failed to remain unfazed. "It keeps you from acting on those feelings?"

"No." He answered sharply. "It squeezes those feelings until they hurt like a mother f-" he checked himself "a lot. They pound and throb inside my head, but always they're floating in a deep well of _knowing_ that if I act on them, I won't bloody well be able to live with myself." He sat down on his cot. "Got it?" He snarled. "A bloody waste of a quest it was." But when he looked up again, Dawn was already gone.

"Oh... bollocks."

Dawn hugged her backpack tight to her as she sat on the bus as it moved relentlessly towards Los Angeles.

_And my mind is a mind that I have come to know. _

_And my eyes can't conceive a world that cannot grow. _

_And on the day I die, thank God my soul will be released._

Dawn ground her teeth together. The bitterness of her mind set was filling every cavity of her thoughts. No one could really understand her. Not now. There was one common thing to everyone around her, one common element in their lives. When they died, they wouldn't really be dead.

The sign flashed by the window. _Los Angeles - 56_

Buffy was going to be so pissed. Somehow, however, the part of her mind which generated this thought failed to cheer her up, or even fill her with the sense of excitement that it used to. There was something building inside her, deep in her chest, it was uncomfortable and sooner or later it would get out.

That night, in the motel room she charged to Buffy's credit card, she lay on her back, fully clothed, her backpack still tightly in her grip. She blinked up at the ceiling as the full weight of what she was doing, and had already done washed over her.

By reflex, she curled into a ball on her side and cried herself to sleep.

The next day, she was positive, everyone would be out looking for her. She had to do what she wanted to do and get out. She gave a little smile, rubbing the dried tears from her face.

Four shopping trips, five taxi rides, a hairdo and eight hundred and seventy dollars later, it was dark again and Dawn was sitting in the backseat of her taxi, dressed more like a skank, and in less material than ever before in her life. Her hair was stylishly pulled back, to mimic the hairstyle of Buffy in her driver's licence photo, which Dawn now carried in her new purse.

"We're here," the cabby informed her. "That's forty six, fifty," he said casually. The money changed hands. She stepped out of the cab, over the small rivulet of drainage water flowing down beside the curb. Her heels clacked satisfactorily on the cement as she approached the nightclub entrance. The gold inlay on her high neck, low backed blouse glittered in the sick orange of the LA streetlight.

A thick, heavy set man in a black turtleneck at the stairs leading down to the club uncrossed his arms and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. "Where are _you_ going?" he chuckled with an expression akin to _do you think I'm stupid?_

Dawn produced her licence and raised an annoyed eyebrow. The big man squinted at it and chuckled again. This time he said it. "You think I'm stupid or something?" He threw her licence back at her. "This ain't no Coco Bongo club sweety, you wouldn't last ten minutes down there."

Without hesitation, she drew the small knife from the only fabric covering her left arm, holding it close to her side and pressing it threateningly against the big man's gut.

He laughed, a big heart felt belly laugh, as he was truly amused. Before she could think, a thick meaty vice grip clamped around her weapon arm, and the other spun her around until she was pinned, facing outward, against his stomach.

"I take it back," he chuckled, "you wouldn't last two minutes down there." His arm crushed harder across her chest, his hand gripped tighter around her wrist until she dropped the knife. She grunted in pain, wrestling once to escape his grasp but failing. The hopelessness of what she was trying to accomplish sped at her like a wild horse. A thought popped into her head which nearly choked her breath away.

"_Please,_" she almost sobbed, "I- I need a _fix_..." She whimpered, convincingly. The grip on her chest loosened. Roughly, she was released and spun around. There was now a sadness in the big man's eyes.

He waited for a heartbeat, during which Dawn wasn't sure if she was going to be tossed into the club or ushered to a rehab facility. Finally, she was released and the man's arms crossed again. Within an instant. He stepped aside, opening the way into the club.

Inside was like nothing Dawn had expected. The only club-type she had ever been to was the Bronze back in Sunnydale, and this was nothing like the Bronze. The only island of refuge, it seemed, from the dank, dark of the club proper was the halogen lit bar, and the stools surrounding it. She shouldered her purse, touched her hair mindlessly and proceeded in.

The smell was the first thing that hit her. Not the rotting body smell she had imagined, or the smell of animals feasting. Old leather, with a hint of sweat.

She sat down at the bar, trying to ignore the couples doing who knows what in the dark corners of the establishment. The bartender approached, an honest looking demon with small unassuming horns and the tiniest hint of a wolfish face.

"What's it to be?" He asked after a moment of staring at her.

Immediately, she realized her mistake. She had no idea what to order at a real bar, let alone a demonic one. The worry she had felt at implementing the plan tripled as she felt it was coming crashing down around her. "Whatever's good," she dismissed, trying to act tired and slightly annoyed. She really should have put more thought into this. The barkeep gave her an odd look, then returned a moment later with a tall narrow glass of what looked like iced tea. One sip, however, told her it was not.

From out of the back corner, in the darkness, a young man approached, hair swept back akin to Spike's, yet jet black instead of white. "Hey, hot stuff," he smiled gingerly to her, touching her elbow, sitting down beside her. "You look like you need some company. Why don't you come back to a private table with me, where we could... get to know each other."

Dawn's stomach trembled, her hand slipped inside her purse to grip the sharpened stake she had there. "I don't need company," she informed him, trying desperately to keep the fear from her voice. "I need information."

He sighed to himself in mock worry, "hmm, well, information is not cheap around here. Everyone likes to keep what they know to themselves." He leaned in a bit closer, bringing his mouth within inches of her exposed neck. "However," he inhaled deeply, "I'm sure we could make some sort of an... arrangement?"

Dawn swallowed hard. "You answer my questions and we'll see," she turned to face him.

"In that case," he murmured, "my answer is yes," he drew closer to her, breathing in the scent of her young flesh.

"If I don't like your answers, however," she cautioned, jabbing the tip of the spike into his ribs. At that moment, his face grew vampiric and his fangs protruded.

"_Slayer,_" he hissed, backing up.

"No, just someone who wants answers." She tilted her head to the side, seductively, exposing more shoulder and neck.

He resumed his human facade and closed his eyes to breath in her scent again. He seemed almost overpowered by it.

"That's better," she crooned. "Now tell me. Where can I find the oracle?"

Without missing a beat, he answered her. "In the basement of the crypt of Hans Vorditd," he took her arm, lightly, "now let's find a more private table."

Her information acquired, Dawn saw no need to continue this conversation, and drew back her stake to impale him. But it was wrenched from her hand by a frowning barkeep.

"Now, now, we don't want any trouble in here." He warned her. "I can't have you dusting my good customers. Why don't you two just find a nice table for the evening?" His eyes showed no sympathy for the teen's situation.

Horrified, Dawn was led to a table at the rear wall, where she was seated, her arm resting elbow down on the table. The vampire took a long whiff of her neck again, then proceeded to trail his way sensuously over her shoulder and down her arm to the crook of her elbow, where he nuzzled his cheek awhile.

Dawn's other hand gripped a fist tightly, her eyes closed, her teeth clenched for fear of screaming and being eaten. Then the cool feel of his cheek left her arm and two hot sharp pricks of pain replaced them. She stifled a moan as she felt his teeth sink into her arm, her blood welling up in his mouth. Without warning, a thick hazy cloud of pleasure floated down on her. Her eyes opened, wearily, heavy, and her fist relaxed. Her breath slowed to shallow panting as he fed on her. The rushing of her blood in her veins filled her ears, as he drank from her wound.

Time seemed to slow, a small corner of her mouth tilting in a smile as the sensation, very much like a drug, washed through her whole body. All too quickly, however, it was over. She felt his lips, hot with her blood, removed from her arm. She slowly, like she was made of lead, looked down to see him passed out on the table beside her, his mouth red with her fresh blood, a heavenly smile on his now human face.

Dawn blinked, trying to rouse herself from the same feeling, shaking her head. She pressed her palm to her arm to stop the bleeding and uneasily stood. She nearly dropped back into her seat again, when the dizziness hit her. Somehow, she managed to stumble to the exit, past the faces of the grinning, almost leering people, and the amused expression of the barkeep.

"Come back soon," he chided.

Somehow she managed to find her way back to her motel room, where she passed out in a weak and uncertain daze.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_I don't know what I've gotten into,_

_But I'm glad that it's now instead of soon..._

Dawn awoke to hear some music drifting in from somewhere. She rolled over and the sound intensified. The digital clock radio on her night stand had been programmed to wake her at eight in the morning. Normally, she would have groaned and rolled over to block it out, or turn it off, but she made no sound as she sat up, swung her feet off the edge of the bed and padded into the bathroom to shower.

_The basement of the crypt of Hans... something_. She thought to herself as the hot water cleansed the disgust off her body. There were two fast forming scabs on her arm, as well as an impression of the rest of the vampire's teeth in a circle around the wound. In the steamy environment of the little shower, she rested a hand against the wall to keep her knees from buckling. She had never imagined what it might feel like to be drained of so much blood. How good it might feel. Somewhere deep inside her, she laughed at how scared she had been, how naive. Outwardly, however, she had none of the strength necessary.

Once she was cleaned, she dried and dressed in an outfit she had bought yesterday. All in silence. The melodies of songs she had never heard danced and played in the background.

Buffy paced the length of the Magic Shop, caught in a twilight zone between vicious pent up anger and equally vicious, gnawing fear.

"She could be anywhere," Xander finally announced. "With your credit card and licence, she could be in New York by now."

"At least, without a passport," Willow offered, "she can't leave the country."

Xander walked towards the counter where the red head was leaning. "Will, can't you... I dunno - magic her back?"

Willow winced, shoving off the counter to stand fully upright. "Honestly? After last night, I don't think I have the strength to even do a locator spell."

"I can't just sit here anymore," Buffy started for the door. "I have to find her. Xander," she tossed back as she reached the door, "I'm borrowing your car."

"Hey, what?" Xander's attention perked up, "Hang on a minute. I'll drive but..." His eyes shifted to Giles'.

The Watcher's brow creased. "We need a destination."

"I think we can follow her without one," Buffy responded.

Spike sat, sulking in the basement, his arms above his head, wrists angled awkwardly in his manacles. He had been sitting there for hours, alternately humming to himself and shouting for help. Finally, he had given up both. Now he merely muttered, semi-coherently.

"When I get my blood hands on her..."

Just then the basement door flew open and Buffy charged down the stairs.

"Spike, I need you... to..." She frowned. "Spike are you chained up?"

"No," he quipped, "I just decided that this was a terribly comfortable position in which to spend my entire bleedin' day."

"Who chained you up?" Buffy went about undoing the restraints.

"That little vixen sister of yours." To Buffy's amused expression, he quickly added, "while I was bloody _sleeping_."

"Did she say where she was going?" Buffy's expression returned to that of a worried mother-type.

"No," the vampire answered simply, "just that she didn't want you to follow her. Oh, and she was on about what it felt like to get my soul back."

This made Buffy pause. Her frown deepened as she undid the last manacle. "We have to find her. You have to play blood hound."

The two stood, Spike rubbing his wrists.

Buffy ran ahead of him up the stairs.

The vampire scowled. "Oh, yippee."

Dawn strolled through the cemetery, her black and grey sweater covering her formerly exposed skin, and the traces of the fun she had had last night. It was brisk, the noonday sun was obscured with clouds and there was a trace smell of L.A. smog in the air, but altogether, Dawn thought, it was nice. She was still feeling a bit lightheaded from her loss of blood, but it was receding. She searched among the large stone crypts for the one the vampire had indicated.

It had been erected by what had been a small sapling, but was now a thick vast oak tree whose roots broke through the flagstone terrace surrounding the entrance, and whose boughs caste a perpetual shadow across the entrance. The name, however, was clear as a beacon.

Hans Vordidt

1811-1865

A mourning cloaked stone figure presided over the archway, face obscured by the shadow of its stone hood and the shadow of the tree overhead.

Stepping over the tangle of roots and pausing only a moment to reflect on the statue, Dawn started inside. The black iron gate swung back easily and the steps immediately before her led down out of sight.

Her footsteps echoed hollowly between the walls of the descending passageway, causing her to slow her pace until, entombed in complete darkness, she was sure no one was following her. Finally, her blind step faltered as she stepped onto the level stone floor of the basement.

"Come in, Dawn," the husky voice welcomed. "My home is your home."

Dawn froze. She could not tell from which direction the voice was coming, but she knew that she had told no one in Los Angeles of her real name. She had gone by Buffy, as it suited her licence.

"Do not fear, I do not wish to eat you. I am the oracle you seek." The husky voice sounded vaguely familiar, but still it had no source and no emotion that could be pinned down.

"I am ahead of you, if you would like to proceed."

Dawn started forward uneasily, her fingers brushing the cool dry wall to her left as she moved, her toe testing the ground in front of her.

"Perhaps this is helpful," the oracle stated, and the chamber was filled with a dull blue light. Dawn stopped immediately, seeing for the first time that her fingers were inches from brushing against the dead flesh of Hans Vordidt, the corpse laid in a recess in the wall. She shuddered and withdrew her hand to her side, making uneasy fists as she proceeded forward.

The oracle itself was a dully glowing blue statue of a kneeling monk, its hands together in prayer and its eyes closed. The voice now clearly came from the statue's mouth.

"I am the oracle of Mornsae. I give knowledge to those who seek it, but I am but a mirror of yourself, whose reflection you could not otherwise see."

"Oracle," Dawn began, her voice trembling. She had not encountered anything quite like this before and was unsure of the protocol.

"I have the answer you seek," it responded.

Dawn stopped, turned her head to one side for an instant. "You do?"

"Yes," said the kneeling monk. "You are a Specter. One of the soulless children of creation. You are of no consequence and you will pass to nothing."

Dawn's face contorted in sorrow. She held her arms across her stomach and doubled over, trying to draw breath to cry. As if from a physical blow, she fell to her knees, stifling a sob and swallowing hard.

"Is there a soul for me?" She asked, thinking of Spike's successful quest.

"A soul for you?" The oracle responded. "For a soulless one? No. You are like any other reformed demon. You can never shake the consequences of your evil ways."

Dawn's self pity hardened to anger. "I'm not a demon." She ground out.

"I assure you, you are. There are only two kinds of Specters; demons and humans. You are no human, therefore you are a demon. Reformed, yes, but a demon through and through."

"You haven't even looked at me," Dawn rubbed a dust colored finger across her tear stained cheek.

"I do not need to look. I can feel your presence. All that is becomes known to me when necessary." The cold emotionlessness of the dull blue kneeling monk stung at Dawn's heart.

"Then look now," her anger was slowly quenching her sadness, as her hate for this oracle was kindled. "I am not a demon."

"Oracles cannot be mistaken. You are a Specter, but not human, so you are a demon."

"_Look at me!_" Dawn shouted, "I _am_ human," she fell forward onto her hands as the dizziness overtook her again.

"I shall look." It said simply. "However I give you fair warning. If you are a demon, then no amount of concealment can prevent you from turning to dust under my gaze."

"I am no demon," she answered coldly.

"Very well. Demon or no, I recommend you close your eyes."

And with that, the stone carved eyelids of the monk slid open, piercing blue rays of light throwing the teen back and pinning Dawn against the wall of the crypt.

With her eyes tightly shut, Dawn felt herself being lifted to her knees, then to her feet, and finally with the lightest touch, she was held above the floor as the blue beam of oracle vision probed her body and mind.

_I am human,_ she mouthed as the warmth of the gaze increased to a mild burning sensation. For one fleeting instant, she wondered if it were possible that she might be nothing more than a self-deceived demon. But that thought vanished as the oracle spoke.

"You are indeed correct. You are no demon. Your essence is human through and through. You must forgive me for my conclusion." There was a pause as the beam of blue light held her fast against the stone wall. "Hold on," it said, losing the touch of formality it had before. "What's this then?" The first hint of emotion: confusion, emerged from its voice as Dawn felt a tightening in her chest.

The tightness expanded until she felt as though her whole body was in the grip of some giant's fist. She couldn't seem to breath in. The sound of the blood pounding in her ears intensified.

"Amazing," said the oracle. What was more amazing, to anyone more familiar with oracles than Dawn, was the fact that an oracle could be astonished by anything.

The tightness increased in her chest until Dawn felt sure her ribs were going to splinter. She tried to mouth the word _stop_ but her face was burning with the blood trapped there and she could no longer feel her lips.

Finally, her mind reeling and her consciousness threatening to slip into a dark abyss, Dawn opened her eyes a crack. The light, now concentrated on her torso, was beautiful. It was every shimmering hue of blue imaginable, tinted at its edges with hints of purple and violet.

From her chest, however, a new light was emerging, overpowering the blue. A deep, rich green light swirled around the contact point between the oracle's vision and Dawn's sweater. As Dawn watched, her mind tottering on the edge of a dream state from lack of oxygen, the green energy curled and mingled sensuously with the blue light.

"What in the world are you?" The oracle asked, probing deeper into the teenager than ever before.

At that point, the suffocating grip of the oracle became too much to stand and Dawn began to spiral down into unconsciousness. But before she lost sight of the dancing lights before her, she saw the green tongues of energy snake out and strike the kneeling monk.

"Oh, shi-!" it began and was blown to pieces, the blue light vanishing instantly and the green slithering back to the unconscious form of Dawn, laying on her side in the dark, empty crypt.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"You know where we're going?" Buffy prodded again to the shape of Spike, partially concealed by a blanket in the back seat of Xander's car.

"Yes, I bloody know," he snapped back. "And this is ridiculous. I feel like a sodding immigrant." He shifted under the thick blanket, protecting him from the setting sun as they drove towards Los Angeles.

"We should be there before morning," Giles interjected.

"Wonderful," Spike answered, flatly.

"Did you get a hold of Angel in L.A.?" Willow asked, crammed in the back seat between Giles and the window.

"All I got was his secretary. Apparently he's out," Buffy said, irritated. She then growled, "If she's fine when we find her, I'm going to _kill _her!" She paused, thoughtfully, "and if she's hurt, I'm going to kill her worse."

"The extremes we'll go to for the ones we love," Xander muttered as the car sped into the dwindling light.

Dawn came to in the utter blackness of the crypt basement. With a gasp for breath into her aching lungs and a whimper of distress feeling her new scorched sweater, she got to her feet.

Dizzy and disoriented, she made her way to a wall. Feeling her way along, she found the stairwell and started up. As the dim light of the evening filled her vision, she began to breathe normally again. Some of her questions were answered, but not the most important one. And now there was no oracle to answer it. _Stupid lousy oracle,_ she thought, stepping out into the early night.

"Hey sweet stuff," crooned a voice from above her.

She started and looked up. The vampire from the club was crouching atop the crypt, one hand resting on the mourning statue.

"Feeling like another hit tonight?" He asked, still in human form, a smile on his face, a hungry look in his eyes. He glanced at her burned sweater. "Trouble with the oracle?"

"Leave me alone," she managed to say as she backed away from the entrance.

"Oh, I don't think I want to." His face took on the features of a vampire. "And I don't think you want me to either." He jumped down in front of her and she stumbled back, her heel catching on the root of the oak and causing her to tumble backwards.

He leaned down over her, his fangs punctuating his hungry grin. "Now why don't you and I stop playing this game. We both know you want more." He closed his eyes, inhaling her youthful, innocent scent.

Dawn felt a pang of desire for him. Her muscles quivered as she thought of the ecstacy of his teeth in her flesh, his tongue against her skin, her blood on his lips. She groaned, shaking the feeling away. She would _not _become a blood junkie. But in the presence of the vampire, the feeling soon returned.

"See? Now that we're on the same page..." he lifted her weak, trembling arm in his, slowly drawing back the sleeve of her sweater.

Again he closed his eyes, opening his mouth to taste her again, when Dawn's other hand flashed forward, driving her stake through the left side of his chest. His eyes shot open with a sound of surprise and he collapsed onto her, rolling away as she pushed him off in disgust. In a heartbeat, he disintegrated into dust, which served to further ruin her new sweater.

Dawn closed her eyes and laid back on the flagstones for a moment, breathing deeply, fighting off the nausea of having nearly gotten what her cold trembling flesh so wanted. She reached across with her right hand and closed her weary fingers around her still sore arm. She crushed the flesh in her tight fist until the nausea went away.

After a moment had passed, she was composed again and she stood. She needed to find another oracle. A better oracle. She needed a plane ticket. She trudged off into the darkening night.

A figure in a dark coat watched her go, stepping out from behind the oak tree. Cloaked in darkness, he followed her. He was keeping his eyes on the lighter grey of her sweater, her familiar scent strong in his vampire nostrils. He followed her until she reached her motel room. He rounded the corner of the building and stood, against the wall, waiting patiently.

A second man, wearing a white silk shirt approached, his breath a thin hiss of amusement. He stood next to the vampire for a moment, then spoke.

"I'm glad you see my side of things."

"It's not about sides," growled the vampire. "She has to figure it out for herself. She'll go crazy if she can't."

"She may die trying," silk shirt cautioned.

"Not if I can help it," vampire responded, angrily.

"You can't," was the answer. "But I can. She'll find her way to me eventually."

The vampire snarled and grabbed the man roughly by the collar. "If you so much as-" he began, threateningly.

"You'll what?" The man sounded amused. "Kill me?"

The vampire released him, roughly. "No. I'll make sure you wish you were never born."

The man smiled a sinister smile. "I already do. Every minute of every day." He started to walk away. "And so will she."

_The mistakes that I've made, they don't seem to bother me,_

_And I sure as hell don't feel like I've missed any kind of train_

_If I could only show you how I feel, then you wouldn't bother me..._

Dawn's hand came down hard on the clock radio off switch. No unusual sensations this morning, just exhaustion.

She showered and dressed in her third outfit she had bought two days ago. She looked with chagrin at the filthy, burned sweater as it lay draped over a chair. There was a faint bruise on her chest where the whatever it was had done whatever it did, but she felt no worse for wear.

She packed up the things she would want to take with her, leaving her sweater where it lay, and left, paying the front desk before she started walking.

In the midmorning light, she knew she needed to find another oracle, one which wouldn't crap out on her, and wouldn't draw unjustified conclusions. But she had no idea where to start looking. As she walked up the nearly deserted street, she passed people who didn't give her a second glance. She wandered up and down the avenues of down town Los Angeles, passing tall apartment complexes and office buildings. With every step, she criticized the sanity of what she was doing. Wandering the streets of a big city, no chaperone, looking for her soul. She came to a stop in front of a great cathedral. The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. It was not particularly Romanesque, from what Dawn had studied in school, but it was impressive.

For reasons she could not fully identify, she started up one of the two vast stairs to the entrance. Once inside, she was very unsure of what she wanted to do there. There were a few people sitting among the pews, an old couple, a woman in a black blouse and a man with a white shirt. Forgetting herself, momentarily, she made reverence to the alter as a man in black with a white collar approached her.

"Can I be of assistance," he said in a hushed voice, adding to the still reverence which pervaded the place.

"I- I need something," she said without thinking, in a similarly hushed tone.

"Of course," he nodded and led her to the confessional in the secluded corner.

Seated opposite her, an old man with a trimmed white beard waited behind a intricately carved and perforated wall. She said nothing for several moments, unsure of what to do. She had not been raised catholic.

"How long has it been since your last confession," began the priest at last.

Dawn was thrown for a moment. "Oh," she said at last. "I- I didn't come here to confess. I need to talk to you about..." she realized the volume of her voice and lowered it instantly, "I need to talk to you about the soul."

"Of course, my daughter," the priest said understandingly.

Dawn shivered despite herself at his last words.

"What is it you wish to know," he began again.

"I have been told I am a Specter," she said bluntly. There was silence on the other end. She cocked her head, waiting to hear his response. When none came, she drew closer to the divide. "Father?" she asked.

The sound of the old man getting up from his wooden seat and the door sliding open was all the response she received. After a few seconds of worry, she was about to make a hasty exit when the door slid open and another priest sat down opposite her.

"My apologies," the new voice said, he sounded younger and more alert. "I am father Wethrin. I am the resident occultist of this parish. Father Mannheim informed me of your concerns." There was a pause on his end. "You believe you are one of the soulless children of creation?"

The words echoed in Dawn's ears. "Yes. An oracle told me."

"This oracle. Did he look at you?" There was notable tension in the young priest's voice.

"Yes." She answered, deciding to leave out the part about having blown the oracle to smithereens. There was a notable sigh of relief on the other side of the divide as the priest concluded she was not a demon come to kill them all.

"You are aware, I take it, of the nature of the evil in this world." There was a pointed silence. "The true nature of the evil?" He prodded.

Dawn was silent for a long while. She felt the rapid, almost excited breathing of the priest on the other side of the grate-like wooden panel. "This conversation is confidential?" She asked at last.

"I assure you," he said, "it is between you, me and God."

Dawn considered this. "My sister is the Slayer," she finally said, hoping she would not regret this.

There was a silence on the other side which could only have been from father Wethrin holding his breath. "Come with me," he said at last.

She slid the door to the confessional open and followed Wethrin through a door to a lobby area. In one corner there was a flight of stairs. Once they were down, they found themselves in a storage basement area, filled with sheets of drywall and insulation left over from the new church's recent construction.

Wethrin lifted back a wide piece of drywall, revealing a rough trapdoor beneath. The brass hinges were the only indication it was not a part of the flooring. He lifted this up and started down what was obviously another staircase.

Dawn started after him, discovering that it was in fact a roughly fashioned wooden ladder, probably built by the priest himself. Dawn's shoes touched the living stone floor by torchlight. Immediately, there was an air about the place she had only ever felt back in Sunnydale. She was almost certain they were going to encounter vampires in this cavern-like lair. She slipped her hand into her purse to retrieve the wooden stake she had retained from last night.

Wethrin, noticing this, smiled. "You won't need that. I make sure none of the demons get through. Dawn did not lessen her grip on the stake for one moment, on the chance that Wethrin himself was a demon, or vampire, leading her down here to kill her.

They walked down the tunnel by the light of the torches which were burning every few meters, until they came to the tunnel's edge. The torch light was now overpowered by some sort of demonic light, red and stinging to the eyes. The tunnel entrance overlooked a vast underground canyon, teeming with demons, vampires and goblins of all sorts. They hissed and clawed at each other, coming and going from networks of other tunnels leading to and from the pit. The churning masses jeered and spat as Wethrin and Dawn appeared at the entrance to the church tunnel.

"I made sure they built the cathedral over the entrance to this place. Consecrating the ground beneath its foundations set up a kind of protection spell, preventing them from getting in," he explained. Dawn noticed that there were no demons even trying to get to their tunnel, even though they clambered up the walls of the canyon, moving in and out of the tunnels there.

"Do you fight the demons that do get out?" Dawn asked in awe. "Out of the other tunnels, I mean?"

"I am just a human," he said. "I fight them with my faith, and my training," he said at last. He turned to the jeering demons, his feet on the edge of the tunnel floor. "_Kyrie eleison,_" he chanted into the midst of them. They screamed and covered their ears. "_Christe eleison,_" he continued, as they hissed and wailed under his blessing. Dawn watched, rapt. "_Kyrie eleison,_" he finished, making a sign of the cross over them. Among them, demons erupted into flames and scattered into dust under the sign of his hand. "See you next week," he shouted down to them. He was answered by howls and curses. He turned to go, leading Dawn away from the pit. "_Et spiritu sanctu,_" he added over his shoulder, eliciting shrieks and hisses.

"I fight how I can," he explained as the two walked back to the basement ladder.

Once they were back in the confines of the church, and seated in father Wethrin's office, he folded his hands and examined her. "So the oracle of Mornsae said you were a Specter, eh?" he nodded. "That's just like him," he waved off the comment. "I wouldn't put too much faith in anything an oracle says."

"Why not?" Dawn spoke for the first time since the tunnel.

"Oracles are just reflections of ourselves that we could not otherwise see, or were too afraid to confront. The cheap oracles, anyway. Everything they say we pretty much already knew ourselves, we just didn't want to accept it."

"So it only said I was a Specter because I already thought that?" Dawn saw a glimmer of hope in this conversation.

"Why do you think you are a Specter?" Wethrin pondered, standing from behind his desk to pace the office, which was lined with books on the occult and christio-demonic texts.

"I did some research," she said. It sounded like a very weak excuse now that she thought about it. "And I..." she paused for a very long moment. "I died for a few minutes, and I didn't go anywhere."

"You mean to heaven?" Wethrin looked very interested, but not particularly concerned for her as he sat down again.

"Yes," she answered. She sounded very small and uncertain in her own ears.

"You know, many people have near death experiences and claim to go to all sorts of weird places."

"Many people weren't conjured by an ancient order of monks to hide a lost artifact," Dawn countered, gaining strength in her voice.

"Conjured, you say," Wethrin thought this over. "Which order of monks did you say?" he asked, standing again to look through his shelves of books.

"Dagon," she added, standing as well. She stood over him as he knelt to look at the most bottom row of books. He selected one and pulled it from between its neighbors.

"Dagon, Dagon," he muttered, opening the book, his finger skimming down the page. "Ah, here we are. Tarnis, twelfth century?" She nodded. As he read, she slowly backed away, heading for the door.

He frowned as he took in the information. She tensed to bolt out of there if he didn't like what he saw.

"You're the thing they were hiding," he muttered. "The Key."

Her hands tightened to fists. "I want to know if there's a soul for me," she said anxiously.

This brought him out of his reverie. He looked up from his book, to the ornate stained glass window behind his desk chair. "A soul for you," he said very quietly. He turned, his expression unreadable. He looked into her face for a long moment then tilted his head very slightly. "Yes, I think I can help you," he took a deep breath. "Have a seat over there, would you?" he closed the book on his desk and dropped to his knees to return it to its place on the shelf, picking up another, smaller book on the way.

Dawn sat down, a small amount of relief infiltrating her cloak of worry.

"You'd want to find the oracle of D'Orsine, it's in New Orleans," he was saying as he sat opposite her on the edge of his desk. His eyes roamed over the text of the small book that was open in his hand. It was dark blue, with no text or title on the cover or spine.

"I thought oracles were useless," Dawn frowned.

"Cheap ones," he answered, distractedly, "D'Orsine is more powerful. She has been known to help people on quests to find their souls." He finished reading what he sought and closed the book, carefully putting it to one side of his desk.

"Thank you," Dawn tried a weak, unconvincing smile, as Wethrin stood from his desk, towering over her as she sat before him. There was an uncomfortable pause and Dawn decided it was time to leave. She tried to stand, but Wethrin's hand came down on her shoulder and shoved her back into the chair. "Hey!" She said, confused and scared, "what are you doing?"

"Saving you," he said confidently. He leaned in close to her, his breath on her face. She felt something cold and wet on her forehead and realized he was marking a cross on her forehead with holy water.

"Stop it," she said, annoyed, trying to wrestle her way out from under him.

"_Device of darkness_," boomed Wethrin, his hand gripping her shoulder tightly. "_Leave this child of God!_" He commanded, pressing his other hand to her chest, above the bruise she had acquired last night. She realized with almost pure astonishment that he was trying to exorcize her. She struggled under him for a moment, then realized she was completely pinned. There was something almost comical about the situation.

"_In this place of God,_" continued the priest, relentlessly, "_I command whatever darkness lies within thee to come **out!**_" he sprinkled her with holy water. She blinked as some ran into her eyes. "_By all the Saints, I command thee,_" he retrieved the small blue book, "_In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, unclean object of darkness, come out!_" he commanded, opening the book to the page displaying some ancient symbol. It was a Maltese cross with some sort of writing around its circular borders.

When Dawn merely crossed her arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, he pulled the book out of her face and flipped a few pages, undaunted. "_En nomne Patris, et Filie,"_ he chanted, flipping a page, _"et spiritu sanctu!"_ Dawn sighed, annoyed as he tried everything he could think of, never letting her stand or even speak.

Finally, he took a small vial of sand from his desk and showered her with it. Ruining yet another outfit. Dawn frowned as he grasped her forehead with his hand. His ring dug into her skin. "Ow," she protested.

"_Aabrun morthii,_" he chanted, now in another language. His eyes fluttered closed and his fingers gripped her head tighter. "_Aabrun desocrii,_" this was no Christian exorcism. He chanted in a demonic tongue, appealing to whatever it was he thought was inside her to come out into the world. "_Archolludai rhet moru desocrii,_" his hand flinched as she tensed.

Dawn felt a gut wrenching nausea take over her. She closed her eyes as the touch of his hand on her head began to burn. Her muscles clenched as the familiar tightness in her chest found its way through another sweater.

"_Desocrii artum!_" Wethrin cried as the green tongues of energy lashed out and threw him across his office. Dawn shivered in terror as the energy crackled and sizzled over her skin, crackling at each grain of demonic sand he had showered her with. Then it returned to her aching chest.

Panting for several seconds, Dawn stood and dashed out of the room, not stopping for more than a moment to tell the older priest, who was near the exit, that father Wethrin was hurt.

She ran out into the sunlight and dashed down the street.

Minutes later, in no particular hurry, the man in the white silk shirt left the church, wiping his hands on his dark pants. He clapped them together, as if he was ridding them of dust. With a deep breath of the morning air, he set off down the street, in the direction of the airport.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

In the cool evening, Spike crouched down at the root of the oak by the crypt of Hans Vordidt. He inhaled deeply. He touched the ground and brought his dusty fingers to his nose. "She was here alright. And looks like she bagged herself a baddie." He wiped the dust from his hands. "But she didn't leave alone. Smells like a vamp followed her."

"Can you track them?" Buffy asked, glancing around the cemetery with suspicion.

"I tracked her here, didn't I?" He said defensively.

"Then let's go," Buffy insisted.

"You go on ahead," Giles frowned at the crypt. "I'd like to see what she was up to here."

"Or we could find her and ask her," Buffy argued, starting to follow Spike as he walked away, past the oak tree.

"One does not come to Los Angeles to wander the cemetery," Giles said reasonably. "If we can discover why she came here, we may be able to deduce where she will go next."

"Buffy," Willow agreed, "I think Giles is right. You guys go on ahead, we'll do some snooping here. Who knows," she shrugged, "we may find her first."

Xander nodded. "I'll stay too, you two don't need an extra pair of nostrils, but these guys might need an extra pair of hands."

Buffy shrugged. "Fine, you can catch up to us later. You know my cell phone number." She dashed off after Spike who was walking confidently down the path into the darkness.

Giles lit his flashlight and started into the crypt, followed by Xander and Willow.

Dawn stood at the airport counter.

"I'm afraid you'd normally have to book a seat in advance," the woman was saying. "But I can check to see if we have any cancellations." She tapped away at her computer keyboard. "What was your destination?"

"New Orleans," Dawn answered. She was fingering Buffy's credit card, nervously. Since she wasn't traveling out of country, she hoped they wouldn't ask for any kind of ID she didn't have.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm afraid... wait a minute," she frowned, looking at her computer screen. She tapped a few keys, and Dawn tensed to run. "Here we go. A seat just opened up." She took Dawn's card and then handed her the receipt to sign. Dawn signed her practiced Buffy Anne Summers signature and took the ticket the woman offered her.

Dawn walked through customs without a problem, her wooden stake not setting off the metal detector, and she had nothing but carry-on, her alternate outfit scrunched tightly at the bottom of her new hand bag.

As she handed the ticket to the guard at the terminal entrance, she overheard the same woman arguing with another customer.

"I'm sorry sir," she was saying, "it says here you just cancelled your ticket. I've already given your seat away." The man was now becoming very vocal, but Dawn walked down the corridor, out of earshot.

"Flight six seventeen, Los Angeles to New Orleans, last call," a voice over the intercom informed the terminal as Dawn entered the plane, looking to her ticket and finding her seat. As she stashed her bag in the cubby above her seat and sat down, a man sat down in the seat across the isle from her.

"Buffy is going to be so mad at you," he said, a small smirk on his face.

Dawn jumped, "Angel!" She quickly hushed her voice. "What are you _doing _here!" She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed them. She regained her composure and ground her teeth. "Did Buffy send you to _babysit_?"

"Buffy doesn't know I'm here," he answered, keeping the smirk.

There was pause during which Dawn's irritation melted away. "Are you going to tell her?"

"Not if you don't want me to," he sighed, turning to indicate the Fasten Seatbelts light. Dawn did so. Angel did not.

"Then why _are_ you here?" She asked, suspicion growing in her mind again.

"To make sure you get a chance to find what you're looking for."

"_You_ know about that?" She said, skeptically. "I didn't tell anyone why I was here."

"You didn't have to. I..." his mouth twisted embarrassed, "I picked up your scent when you came to L.A. That cemetery was one of my usual haunts." He lowered his voice further. "Nice job, by the way, with that vampire."

"I don't need your protection," she answered flatly.

"You do need my help, though," he smirked. "Who do you think it was who cancelled the ticket for the seat you're sitting in?"

Dawn paused for a moment. "Fine." She said, a little resentfully. "So you're here to 'help' me. What am I going to do when the oracle in New Orleans goes kaput like the one here?"

"It might not. D'Orsine is a good oracle. She may be able to help you."

Dawn looked straight into the vampire's eyes. "Why are you doing this?" She asked, all honesty and seriousness in her voice.

He sighed. "I don't know what happened to you, but you wouldn't run away from Sunnydale looking for oracles unless you were looking for one particular thing. One thing you couldn't find anywhere else." He put a consoling hand on her shoulder. "I know what it feels like: not being sure."

"I'm pretty sure, now," she replied, dejectedly.

"Don't count yourself out too quickly. You're unique. Anything that couldn't predict your creation can't be counted on to predict your future."

She nodded, gratitude in her eyes. "Thanks," she tried a weak smile. "You know that eventually, I'm going to have to do this on my own."

"Of course," he nodded, giving her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "But until then, I know some people in New Orleans who will help you. This sort of thing doesn't happen to just anyone. You can't sweep it under the rug with comforting words."

"Exactly," Dawn nodded. The weight of what she meant to do sank into her. Angel understood. "And you're right," she added solemnly. He glanced at her for clarification. "Buffy's going to kill me."

He eyed her and cracked a smile. Just then, the seatbelt light blinked off. "What do you know? We're airborne."

Giles picked up a shard of the shattered oracle illuminated by his flashlight. He eyed it carefully. "Well," he said at last, "I'm afraid I can't think of anything off hand that would cause an oracle to explode, aside from smashing it with some kind of hammer."

"Something tells me the Dawnster didn't come all the way to L.A. to pick a fight with a statue," Xander eyed the fragments. "I mean, we've got statues in Sunnydale, why not obliterate those?"

"Maybe she had a grudge," Will suggested.

"Well," Giles continued, "at least we can conclude with some certainty that she learned something of importance. And whoever or whatever destroyed the oracle, made certain no one else would find out what that was."

"It's an old fashioned conspiracy," Xander said with mock astonishment. "I bet the government destroyed the oracle, to hide the fact that they go around destroying oracles for kicks!"

"...Perhaps," Giles responded at last.

Spike strolled up the steps of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels.

"You're sure she came in here?" Buffy was saying as Spike burst through the door with a loud kick.

"The nose..." he began, then thought better of it, "yes, I'm sure."

They walked through the narthex and down a hall with rooms on either side. Spike rounded a corner and entered the last office. It was dark and lined with shelves of books.

Spike stopped just inside the entrance and Buffy passed him, stopping when her toe struck something soft.

"Two bodies," Spike informed her in the darkness, "an old geezer and a younger bloke, both men. Strangled to death less than twelve hours ago, I'd say."

"And Dawn was here?" Buffy asked, quietly.

"Yeah, about the same time." He paused. "And there was someone else. A human fellow, he was here about the same time too. He left alive, though."

"We find him," Buffy turned and walked out past Spike, "we find Dawn."

The flight to New Orleans took three hours and was spent without much discussion. Angel seemed content to sit and stare towards the front of the plane, and Dawn to gaze out the window as the tiny lights of sleepy cities passed under them.

Finally, in a sudden breaking of the silence, the Fasten Seatbelts indicator clinked on again. "Good morning, travelers, this is the captain speaking," a voice said over the intercom. "We will be landing in New Orleans shortly, please fasten your seatbelts and put your seat backs and tray tables in their upright and locked positions. Thank you."

"A car'll be waiting for us when we get there," Angel said simply, neglecting to fasten his seat belt as Dawn did hers.

She paused. "Why are you doing all this?" The quiet question hung there as the plane began its descent.

"No ulterior motives," he defended, "it happens to be very important to me and mine that you find what you're looking for."

"Are you sure you're not doing this for Buffy?" Dawn asked, a trace of resentfulness in her voice. She stared straight ahead. She was used to men, especially demonic men 'helping' her in order to gain favor with Buffy.

When there was no response for what Dawn decided was the appropriate amount of time, she sighed. "You're just like Spike."

"Hey," Angel almost snarled. "I came here to help you. _You_. Not Buffy. I have no intention of telling Buffy where you are, or even what you're doing, if you don't want me to. No one, _no one_" he took her shoulder again, "can understand like us."

_Except maybe Spike_, she thought but kept it to herself. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I'm not used to anyone going to so much trouble for me."

"You're unique," Angel answered simply.

"I wish everyone would stop saying that!" She said with surprising anger. "You say it like it's a compliment. I don't _want_ to be unique. I want to be normal!"

"Dawn," Angel said gently, sympathetically, "you're not a freak."

She grated her teeth and said nothing.

They landed without incident and the two left together, followed at some distance by a man in a white shirt, covered inconspicuously with a black trench coat.

They left the terminal in New Orleans, taking their seats in a plush black limousine, just as, back in L.A., Spike led Buffy and the others to the Los Angeles airport front gates.

"She took a _plane,_" Buffy said beyond anger, "_on my credit card_?"


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"That's it," Angel said, indicating the small church, nestled in the bayou, flanked by huge hanging, buttressed trees. The sun was just peaking through the swamp underbrush on the horizon, and Angel's coat collar was up around his face. "There's a staircase leading to the basement."

"Wait," she turned, but he was already getting into the limo.

"Someone will be waiting here when you get out to take you to your next destination."

"You mean I won't be done?" She asked downheartedly.

There was almost the hint of a smile on his face. "They don't give them out like lollipops," he answered and the door closed. Dawn watched the limo rumble off down the gravel road, around a bend in the swamp and out of sight.

Dawn turned back to the chapel in the early morning light. It looked decrepit and neglected, moss and rot encroaching up its wooden sides, the grass of the front terrace overgrown and ratty, even the silhouette of the bell hanging in its modest tower was askew.

Nevertheless she started forward, her new, now slightly worn shoes crunching across the gravel path leading to its front door. The door was old and opened with a minimum of forcing.

Once she was inside, her world was lit only by the dim colors of the mildewed stained glass windows. She made her way across the creaking floorboards to the nearest doorway, which, as luck would have it, opened to reveal a damp, musty staircase.

She started down, pausing only to notice the guano filling every corner of the steps themselves. She carefully found her footing and avoided touching the walls or looking to the ceiling.

Once she was down, the universe was completely black. There was only the sound of her own breathing and the moaning of the distant wind to fill the enclosed space. Her heart skipped a beat as the door at the top of the stairs was caught in a draft and slammed closed with the sound of soft rotting wood to wood.

Dawn shivered. With one toe testing the floor in front of her, and a hand tentatively outstretched, her fingers trembling, she started forwards.

"Hello," she whispered. She had appreciated the light from the oracle of Mornsae, as it had come just in time to prevent her from making a rather nasty discovery. Now, with the record of having obliterated that oracle, she was relatively certain no oracle would willingly cooperate with her again.

"Hello?" She said again, louder.

Before any words emerged from the darkness, there was a rasping, like metal against stone. "Stop." It said.

Dawn did so immediately. "A- are you the oracle of-" she began, stuttering.

"I am." It croaked simply. There was a long pause, during which Dawn felt sure something was watching her. "You have come to me, destroyer of oracles," the voice was like that of a very, very old woman, one who had smoked too much in life and who now did so through a hole in her throat.

"I d- didn't destroy th- the other oracle," she stammered, "i-it was an accident."

There was a long pause. A rustling, accompanied by a tiny squeak made Dawn look up. In the utter darkness, she could see nothing.

"You speak the truth," the oracle croaked. "I will neither look at you, nor examine you in any way, soulless one," D'Orsine continued. "I have the answers you seek."

"Tell me," Dawn asked, some of the fear leaving her voice, "is there a soul for me?"

To her surprise and slight disgust, the oracle of D'Orsine began to laugh. It was a scratchy, throaty laugh. One which threatened to disgorge a lung with the hacking which accompanied it. "A soul for you?" She mused. "Silly, wicked one. There is no power in all the universe to grant a soul to one of your kind."

Dawn made a tight fist of the hem of her shirt. "That's what the oracle of Mornsae said," she observed. "He thought I was a demon," she continued. "He looked at me and saw that I was human."

"True," came the croak. "But I am an altogether more powerful oracle. I see not only what you see, and refuse to see, but what you cannot see. What you _did_ not see." There was the sound of rasping breath. "I see the pain of millions of tortured souls. I see the misery of countless lives. I see the unleashing of hell onto this... _pathetic_ planet. And all" she rasped, "because of you." There was again the agitated scraping of metal against stone.

A strength and confidence shattered the fear and uncertainty of Dawn's mind. Finally, one prevailing thought forced its way to the forefront of her consciousness. "I am the Key," she said, impressed by the power conveyed in her own voice.

The clink of metal on rock grew louder and more agitated. "I know," the oracle hissed. "A cruel and evil thing devised to undo the segregation of one evil from another."

Now Dawn could hear the individual sounds of chain links as they strained against some force, clinking against stone. She retreated a step or two, unsure of what form this oracle took. Something told her it wasn't a pious monk.

Her actions elicited a croaked laugh from the thing before her. "The Key, you say, proudly," she scorned, "and you retreat in terror from an oracle." She laughed again. The squeaking above Dawn's head intensified. "Perhaps you are uncertain of exactly what you're dealing with," the oracle added angrily, and immediately a dim orange glow pierced the darkness.

It started slow, but flashed to brilliance so quickly that Dawn didn't have time to focus on its source. All in one heartbeat, however, the flash erupted into the rushing frenzy of woken bats, dashing this way and that, squealing and clawing at the air and Dawn's face. Dawn screamed and fell to her knees, her arms covering her head as the bats retreated from the light, up the staircase. When the squeaking was gone, she opened her eyes and nearly screamed again at the sight of the oracle of D'Orsine.

She was a hideous skeletal creature, with the face of an emaciated boar and the hulking body of a demon. Twisting horns protruded from the stone carved cloak she was wearing and her unnaturally wide mouth bore tusks and fangs of all different kinds. Her knees bent backwards in a grotesque way and her arms, inside the foreshortened sleeves of her cloak were hair and spine covered. The statue was chained with thick iron chains against the stone foundation wall of the church, one length across her stomach, and a length with a manacle for each limb.

The figure was motionless as it stood, glowing dimly orange under Dawn's terrified gaze, its eyes wide with the rage of a captive animal. Dawn realized that the statue could not move from its frozen position, but the sounds of the clinking chains against stone could not be resolved in her mind.

"I am D'Orsine," the frozen pig-like lips of the oracle croaked.

"C- can you s- see me?" Dawn asked almost inaudibly.

The oracle laughed. "Look at you? And be destroyed?" She paused. "I see the evil you do, the evil done for you and the evil you allow to be done."

"I am not evil," Dawn protested. "If you looked at me, you would see that."

"I am not so foolish as your last victim," D'Orsine hissed. "I tell you, you are a soulless nothing and never will you be more than a shadow of that darkness which haunts the world."

Dawn managed to ignore the hate in the oracle's voice. "You would see how wrong you are if you were brave enough to look at me."

"I will look," D'Orsine rasped.

That took Dawn by surprise. She had not expected the hideous boar-thing to agree to its own death just to satisfy its curiosity.

"And as you die, knowing your evil is gone from the world," D'Orsine croaked, "know that the oracle of D'Orsine looked into your soul..." she hissed with pure hatred "and saw _nothing._"

With that, a crackling orange light stabbed out from the wide eyes of the boar-demon. Dawn closed her own, knowing the light might blind her. The warmth of the gaze held Dawn for several seconds before the oracle hissed again. "You must burn in my sight!"

A slight tingling enveloped her body as the oracle redoubled its efforts. There was a blazing afterimage behind Dawn's eyelids as the light must have been terrifically bright.

"I am no demon," Dawn said at last, finding her throat dry.

There was a quiet hiss of acknowledgment from the oracle as the gaze died down, concentrating now, only on her torso. "You are some kind of mockery of human," the oracle said, emotionlessly. "A conjured one, housing the Key."

"If you look at it, it will destroy you," Dawn warned, the same confidence filling her as she peeked out to look at the narrowed orange gaze. "Now tell me again. Is there a soul for me?"

There was a hiss as the oracle took offence at having been assumed wrong. "I do not make mistakes of that kind." D'Orsine said, less hatred in her voice. She seemed distracted by what she was looking at.

Dawn felt the same tightening behind her sternum. "Don't look at it," she ordered. "It's what killed the other one," she sounded, to herself, a little concerned for this thing which hated her so much. She pulled in a labored breath. "Tell me if there's a soul," she almost begged.

"No soul," D'Orsine clipped. "Something else. Some kind of... not here." D'Orsine stopped and there was a moment of complete silence. Not even a bat squeaked.

Then D'Orsine shrieked with an ear splitting voice. "_Burning!_" she howled, her gaze retreating back to her eyes, the glow brightening and filling the room again.

Dawn looked down to her chest and saw the crackling green energy again. "No!" She begged. She looked back to the monstrosity chained before her. The hatred in its eyes seeming now more like terror. "Tell me!" She shouted over the crackling sound in her ears.

"Get... _away!_" D'Orsine raged, the orange glow flaring.

"Where is my soul!" Dawn screamed as the statue physically tumbled backward against the stone wall, the chains clinking loose, falling away. "_Where is it?_" She lunged forward, ready to grab the ugly thing by the chains. As her hand reached out, however, the crackling green energy sizzled across the gap between them and found the stone of the oracle, heating it until it shattered.

In the explosion, Dawn was thrown backwards into the darkness, her head striking the stone of the far wall. Bits of stone and links of chain rained down on top of her. She lay silent as the shriek of the oracle died away.

Dawn's eyes fluttered open. The first thing she noticed, before she recognized what she was looking at, was that she was not laying on the cold stone floor. _Sky_. That's what she saw. She blinked. Where was the church?

She sat up with a groan. She opened her eyes again and froze. The ocean churned before her, two hundred feet below her. She fell back onto her back in the thick grass at the top of the cliff, a hand to her head. For several seconds she tried to find consciousness again, then let out another groan.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," an amused voice said. "Cause I'm sure as hell not going to kiss you."

Dawn frowned and rolled onto her side before sitting up again. The owner of the voice sat beside her, staring out at the darkening horizon as the sun bloodied the sky behind them. The wind whipped through his blond hair and ruffled his white silk shirt.

"Where am I?" She said groggily as she propped herself up on her hands. "What happened?"

"Cape Spear," he answered, "and you blew up another oracle."

It took a moment for his words to register. She shook her head. "Cape Spear? Where's that?"

"Newfoundland," he answered.

"As in Canada?" She asked, rubbing her head again. "How'd we get here? I don't have my passport."

He said nothing for a moment as she turned to look out to the Atlantic. "You don't need a passport if you don't actually cross the border," he said at last. "Think of us as Specters Without Borders."

There was a pause as Dawn's mind came to full capacity. "You're a Specter?"

"News flash," he grinned, "so are you."

She sulked, "oh, yeah."

"You don't sound very pleased," he said, with mock disappointment. "I worked hard to get to where I am."

"Sorry if the prospect of ceasing to exist upon the moment of my death doesn't appeal to me," she remarked resentfully.

The disc of the sun flattened to an ellipse on the Western horizon and the first stars peaked out above the darkening ocean.

"You'd prefer to spend an everlasting eternity in some fiery pit?" He took a breath, "you're weird."

"Not some fiery pit. In peace, with my sister and... and mom," she said distantly. "And a silk shirt with those khakis? _You're_ weird."

"You'll get over it," he said simply.

"Get over you're shirt?" she replied, "not likely."

"Not many people go to that place," he continued. "By not many, I mean a few people in a million. Most are extremely sad or angry when they die, and I expect you know where they go."

"You believe that?" Dawn said with scorn.

"I know that," he said simply. He said nothing more for several long moments, staring out as the deep red sun stained the edges of the clouds a breathtaking magenta.

"How do you know?" Dawn asked at last.

"Do you want to know the whole story?" He asked, rasing an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

The man in the white shirt took a deep breath. "Boy is born," he began, "boy grows up. Boy gets married and has a... beautiful daughter. Boy is introduced to a woman named Niki. She shows boy the world as it really is. Full of vampires and demons and evils of all kinds. She shows him that she alone stands against all the forces of darkness. She shows him that it can be done."

"She was a Slayer," Dawn observed.

"Boy took to fighting evil as best he could. Boy learned some magic; teleportation, to escape when things were hopeless; time alteration, to save the day, just in time; stealth, to approach and kill without being seen. Then one day, many years ago, boy killed one too many demons. He angered the Werlech demon. The Werlech demon came to the boy's home and killed his wife, killed his daughter. The Werlech demon came to the boy's parents' home and killed the boy's mother, killed the boy's father. The Werlech demon came to the homes of everyone the boy had ever known, killing them one by one. Then do you know what happened?" He asked, looking at Dawn for the first time.

She couldn't see any trace of recognizable emotion in his eyes. That alone was scary. She merely shook her head.

"The Werlech demon came to a park. He walked along the path of that park until he saw the boy sitting by the pond, crying for his daughter. The Werlech demon did not say anything. He reached out and took the boy's soul, dragging it from his heart, as the boy cried for his daughter. And what happened to the boy's soul, I never found out. But the boy soon found out why it had been stolen from him: so that all those people sent to the afterlife by the Werlech demon would never meet the boy again, because the boy, when he died, would vanish, as if he never lived. The boy never fought evil again. He learned to accept all aspects of the world, good and evil, and eventually, he learned to embrace his fate." The man stared out at the darkening horizon. "And I've decided to help you come to terms with yours."

Dawn said nothing for some time. "You looked for your soul." It was a statement.

"Yes," he answered. "I searched all the worlds I could, bartering passage here and there, paying others with souls to die in order to tell me what there was beyond." He paused, reflecting on his past. "I learned a great deal. For one thing, all those people that died were not so innocent as I had assumed when I grieved for them. A good many of them ended up in one hell dimension or another."

"Including your daughter?" Dawn asked. There was no spite in her voice, but she ensured there was no sympathy either; she had no reason to believe this stranger's story.

There was a long pause, as the man lowered his gaze to the cliff's edge. "I never found her," he said quietly, at long last.

"What do you want from me?" Dawn asked when his story telling was done.

"I don't want anything from you," he answered, no amusement left in his voice. "I expect you want me to tell you how to find your soul."

"I wouldn't mind," she admitted.

"Even if it means dying for it?" He asked, looking with all seriousness from his brown eyes to her blue ones.

"Are you asking me if I would die for my soul?" Dawn almost laughed. "Isn't that a bit..." she searched for the word "pointless?"

"Why?" He asked, "You don't feel you've lived a life worthy of having a soul to die for?"

The question hung in the air as the light vanished and the world became shades of dark blue.

"Stand up." He ordered, standing himself. Without waiting for her, he marched to the cliff's edge. He turned to wait for her.

Tentatively, she stood and joined him. The wind whipped off the Atlantic and threw her hair back away from her face. "What are we doing?" she asked, loudly, over the rushing in her ears.

"Jumping," he shouted back to her over the rising wind.

Dawn's pulse quickened. She sidestepped, out of arm's reach of him.

"Not _throwing,_" he laughed, "_jumping._"

"Why would I want to jump?" She asked, staring past her feet at the vertiginous drop to the torrent of water below.

"I don't know why _you'd_ want to jump," he answered. "But I'll tell you, as a veteran Specter, why I want to jump, right now." He held his arms out, like a diver. "Because everyday is a reminder of everything that I've lost." The wind took his words. "Because no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you give up, evil will always win." The wind rose, whipping his silk shirt across his shoulders. "Because jumping is the easiest way to end what has been a meaningless, pointless, painful existence." He bent his knees as if he were going to dive over the edge. "And most of all, because, as a Specter, when I hit the water, I'll never know."

There was a terrifying instant when, as the wind picked up again, Dawn thought he was actually going to jump and leave her standing on a cliff in Newfoundland. But just as she was about to suggest that he get counseling, he straightened up, dropped his arms to the side and faced her.

"Now I'll tell you, as a veteran Specter, why every time I stand on a cliff, I _don't_ jump." He stepped back from the edge and she followed. He plunked himself down in the long shivering grass and she plunked herself down beside him, relieved that his suicidal episode was over.

"So tell me," she prompted.

"I don't jump for the very same reasons I want to," he explained. "Because everyday, I see my daughter running to catch her school bus. Everyday, my wife kisses me goodbye as I leave for work. Every single day," he persisted "I wake up, and for one small moment, I forget the last twelve years of my life and I'm in heaven, laying in bed beside my still sleeping wife, our daughter is watching those early morning cartoons in the livingroom. My parents are in my childhood home, sitting down to the breakfast they enjoy ridiculously early every Sunday morning, and I'm in heaven." He smiled and Dawn thought she caught a glitter in the corner of his eye. "And only one thing can take that away from me," he looked to Dawn, "jumping."

"But what about evil?" she asked, "and your pointless life and all that?"

"Evil," he sighed, "as it turns out, really knows how to party." To her upturned eyebrow he explained. "When you no longer have to face the consequences of your actions," the details of his face were now lost in the darkness, "you learn to have a lot more fun. Death certainly becomes meaningless, since all it is's an end to the party."

"So you've just given up on humanity? 'To hell with morality and the fight for good'?" Dawn sounded a little astounded.

"On the contrary," he smiled, "I have a great pity for humanity in general; those stupid folk who destroy their planet without the help of evil, and indeed go to hell with no help from me." He sighed. "But morality was invented to safeguard your soul. To keep you on the straight and narrow. But most importantly, to keep you afraid of death." He clarified in the darkening night, lit only by the deep violet clouds. "You see, death is something that most people cannot deal with. They avoid it, dodge it, put it off and even go so far as to pretend it doesn't exist. But when you've got nothing to lose," he smiled, "'losing it all' doesn't mean very much." He stood again, looking down at the girl. "That's why you need to jump," he explained. "If you're not willing to die for the only thing in the universe worth having when you die, you might as well kill yourself right now!"

This paradox seemed please him and he let out a little chuckle. In the dusk, he walked to the edge of the cliff and turned his back to it. "Dawn!" He shouted over the wind. "There is a soul for you!" He stretched his arms out to the side, making to fall backwards into the ocean. "The question is: Do you want it?"

Dawn slowly stood. The wind tossed the grass around and it caressed her ankles. She walked slowly forward, thinking with every step what she was planning on doing when she reached the edge. Then the grass was gone and she was standing on the rock at the cliff's edge. She looked to him and turned her back to the cliff, as he did. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to stop. Her mind was a numb fuzz of confusion and uncertainty. The question arose, the dark blue world surrounding her, as to whether this was some horrible nightmare. She found her arms reaching out to either side of her as his did, her fingertips just brushing his.

She saw him close his eyes as he imagined the things his life meant, those things he was giving up. "_My wife_," he said into the wind, his blond hair whipping across his face, obscuring his features. His white shirt hugged his back and shoulder blades, ruffling almost violently about his stomach. "_My daughter_," his words overpowered the sound of the wind and the sound of the blood pumping through Dawn's veins.

Without even a heartbeat of thought, Dawn felt her heels leave the solid surface of the rock and her body plunge backwards off the cliff. There was exactly one staggeringly slow heartbeat during which she felt the most delightful sensation of floating, the wind quiet, the roar of the ocean dimming, a small point of bliss expanding to fill her mind, absorbing her terror, then her world went dark.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Joyce smiled as they all sat down for Thanksgiving dinner. Buffy did the honors and began carving the fat, golden turkey. Dawn smiled warmly as she surveyed the wondrous thing that was the spread. Doylies, she mused, candlesticks, the good china, the silverware. It all seemed too good, too perfect to be true.

"Smells good," Xander commented as he watched Buffy using the large carving knife.

"Yes, it all looks delicious," Giles smiled affectionately at Mrs. Summers.

"Well, I couldn't have done it without your help," Joyce replied, graciously. "I'm so lucky to have such wonderful daughters..."

The table, the room, the smiles, all dissolved into a deep, yawning darkness.

"_If you need anything, you can find me in deepest thoughts._" The voice was no more than a whisper.

_Grab my knee and look at me and try to tell me I'll be home soon,_

_Safe in my bed and unstoned. I'm tired of me this way..._

As Dawn's eyes opened, her first thought, groggy as it may have been, was that she _had_ to stop passing out all the time. The music was her next perception, and within seconds, she was back to being fully awake. She was in fact getting quite adept at regaining consciousness.

With this discovery. She realized that the last memory she had was of plummeting off a two hundred foot cliff into the Atlantic ocean. She started and quickly looked around her. She recognized the place as the airport terminal in New Orleans. She was seated squarely between two large goons in black suits looking very unhappily at anyone passing them by who so much as glanced at the young woman. "Excuse me," she asked of one of them, "uh..." the question washed away in her mind. _Where am I: New Orleans. How did I get here: teleported. Do you work for Angel: Yes. What do I do now: we don't know._ The questions answered themselves as they arose in her mind. "Thank you," she said at last.

The goons looked to her, then to each other and nodded. "You can contact us again at this number," the one handed her a business card. On it was printed a stylized spread wing and the cell phone number of the goon service. They stood and walked away, melding into the black suits of the New Orleans travelers.

Dawn was just sliding the card into her purse, which somehow had managed to return to her lap, when she heard a familiar voice above the din.

"Buffy?" Dawn stood, realizing immediately how dead she was.

"_Dawn!_" There was very little indication that her older sister was relieved to see her. As Buffy, Spike, Xander, Giles and Willow surrounded the sixteen year old, she suddenly felt very sheepish and embarrassed. Her whole 'quest' seemed like a stupid teenaged prank.

"Yeah, that's right!" Buffy was nodding, trying to let as much anger and annoyance onto her face as she could, "you should feel stupid!"

"What were you _thinking_?" Xander put in.

"Y- you could have been kidnaped by demons or eaten my vampires, or- or- eaten by demons and _kidnaped _by vampires!" Willow looked very distressed.

"Or you could have been run over by a good old fashioned car!" Xander threw in.

"_Totally_ irresponsible behavior," Giles was saying.

Spike, meanwhile, was standing on the outskirts of the group, looking very much like he didn't know any of them.

"I just don't know what you were _thinking_," Xander emphasized.

"-or -or a diseased llama," Willow continued, "or you could have been-"

"Will," Buffy stopped her, "I got it," and Willow stopped.

Dawn kept her eyes on the ground and tried not to insert any unnecessary _I know_'s or _you're right_'s.

Finally, when the group was all yelled out, Buffy grabbed Dawn and hugged her tight. She held her there for a long moment then seized her shoulders and demanded, "Now give me my credit card, we're buying plane tickets back to Los Angles."

"I'm not leaving," Dawn answered simply, realizing with no joy that her purpose here, whatever it may be, was not finished.

"What do you mean you're _not leaving_?" Buffy demanded, angrily.

"Here's your credit card," Dawn handed the plastic to her sister, "sorry, I charged so much on it. I'll pay you back."

"What'd'you mean you're _not leaving_?" Buffy demanded again, jamming the card angrily into her pocket.

"Buffy," Dawn explained, trying to keep her tone rational, "I didn't come here for some stupid teenage... _thing_. There's something very important I need to do," the explanation sounded dodgy at best, "and you can't be around for it."

Buffy was silent for a moment, appearing as though she was seriously considering her sister's words. Then she roughly grabbed Dawn's arm and started back towards the lines of people. "We're going now, and we'll discuss this at home."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dawn argued, struggling against her sister's superhuman grip.

"We're going home, and that's the end of it," Buffy said, no amusement in her voice. The rest of the group looked very much like they supported her.

Dawn managed to break free of Buffy's iron grip, only to stand her ground. "Buffy, the only way you're going to get me on that plane is if I'm unconscious." She regretted those words for the six seconds after she said them, and the two minutes after she woke up on the plane that it took her to shake off the chloroform.

There were no words for the anger she felt as the plane made its way above the cloud deck back to Los Angeles. She didn't say one word even as they drove from the airport to the motel that had been signed in Buffy's name. It was early morning when Buffy and Giles had decided that it would be better for everyone to get a good day's sleep before the next evening's journey back to Sunnydale.

Dawn was already asleep, the blinds were drawn and Willow was watching the door, to ensure she did not decide to sneak back to New Orleans.

Buffy, in the adjacent room with Xander, Giles and Spike, were discussing what sort of demonic possession might have overtaken the littlest Summers, when the door opened a crack and a man wearing a balaclava strode in.

Buffy jumped to her feet, seizing her crossbow and the others did likewise, ready to take on this new foe. The figure, however, backed up hastily, removing his sun-blocking apparel.

"_Angel?_" The exclamation was unanimous.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded of the astonished group.

Buffy was speechless. "Wha- what are _we _doing here?" She stammered. "What are _you_ doing here? Why didn't you answer my calls?" She lowered her crossbow absently, the others taking their cue from her.

"I didn't want you involved," her former lover explained. He pocketed his balaclava and closed the motel room door behind him. "This is none of your business."

"Like hell it isn't!" Buffy shouted, then lowered her voice, suddenly mindful of her sister sleeping in the other room. "You're responsible for her rampaging around America, obliterating oracles?"

"No," he snapped back at her, "well, yeah, the- No," he said finally. "I had no idea she was coming until she was here."

"They have things called phones. You call me, you tell me where she is, I come get her," Buffy hissed angrily. "That's how this works."

"That's not how _this_ works," he countered. "You can't help her with this."

"_With what?_" Buffy raised her voice again. "I am _this_ close-" she began, then realized she had nothing to add. "_This close_," she finished, keeping the anger.

"Dawn is a Specter," Angel announced suddenly, as if to put an end to the conversation.

There was silence for two long minutes.

"A what?" Xander asked, finally.

"Good question," Buffy turned to Giles.

"Ah- a Specter," Giles was caught off guard. "A Specter is classified as any being that is not evil but does not have a soul, to speak of."

"Dawn thinks she doesn't have a soul?" Buffy demanded, confused. "Where would she get a crazy idea like tha-" she whirled on Spike. "You!"

The blond haired vampire suddenly entered the conversation, looking very defensive. "Hey, don't look at me like that. She was all ready to go bustin' her butt lookin' for the damn thing the minute she chained me up-"

"Dawn chained you up?" Angel asked, a slight bit of amusement tainting the seriousness of his eyes.

"While I was sleepin'," the other vamp quickly added. "I didn't tell her anything but the truth."

Buffy's mind was racing through the events leading up to Dawn's disappearance. She recalled the emotional night that her sister had been killed, albeit temporarily, by the spider demon. "It was my fault," the Slayer said softly.

Everyone stopped, dropping their accusing glares from Spike. "How so?" Angel asked.

"That night-" she began, "after we brought her back, she... she asked about where I went when I died," Buffy's tone became self accusing. "Why didn't I see it?" She sat down heavily on the bed. "She wanted to know what Heaven was like. I am such a knob."

"It's not your fault," Giles sat down beside her.

"Buffy, he's right," Willow was standing at the door, having been drawn by the raised voices. "That night, Dawn was doing all kinds of research about the soul and Specters, and I might have accidentally let her see some stuff that might have been pretty convincing."

"The point is," Xander concluded, "the Dawnster thinks she doesn't have a soul. We need to convince her otherwise... Right?"

"See, that's the problem," Angel argued. "She's right. She is a Specter. She was conjured, not born. That's what she's looking for. That's why you have to leave."

"How do you know all of this?" Buffy asked at last, looking up at him from her place beside Giles on the bed.

"I've done my own research," Angel replied a little weakly. "And I know some people."

"People or demons?" Buffy asked quickly.

"People," Angel assured her. "And demons," he added. "But good demons: Specters."

"Tell me you're not leaving her in the hands of these demon friends of yours," Giles began.

"His name is Loki," the vampire soothed, "and he's not a demon, he's a Specter."

"You handed my sixteen year old sister over to a demon," fury was rising in Buffy's voice, and her eyes. She stood from the bed, retrieving the crossbow. "Tell me where he is, and if I find out he's done _anything_ to her in _any way_-"

"Buffy!" Willow called from outside. The redhead dashed back into their room. "Dawn's gone. She climbed out the window."

Buffy's anger nearly exploded. She pointed to Xander, Spike and Giles. "You three, go and find her," she glared menacingly at Angel. "_You're_ coming with _me_."

Spike led the others, including Willow, down the street, Dawn's scent leading him. There were no words between them as they strode towards the cemetery, but at once the three humans gripped their weapons.

Angel led Buffy at a slower pace, resentful that she held him almost at crossbow point. "Buffy, you know I would never let anything happen to Dawn. She's like my little sister."

"According to you, she's no one's sister," Buffy snapped. They walked across the terrace towards the high iron fence that surrounded the cemetery everywhere but the gate. She stopped, shaking her head. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!" She sounded almost hurt. "You didn't trust me to know what was best for her?"

"It's not about trust," Angel consoled. "No one but vampires and Specters can understand what it's like... to be empty that way."

"So you let her freak us all out, and then hand her over to some creep who also has no soul? How's that helping?" The hurt was gone, replaced with straight anger.

"Loki is a good man," it was Angel's turn to feel hurt. "He helps people like Dawn. It's what he does." He stopped, making her turn. "And for the record, I'm a little annoyed that you don't trust me. After all we've been through-"

"I don't trust anyone when it comes to Dawn's safety," Buffy interrupted firmly. "And obviously I am right not to."

"Give Loki a chance," Angel defended. "He's the safest person on the planet who can help her."

"Tell me where he is," Buffy countered, "and when I meet him, I can decide that for myself."

"I don't think he'd appreciate that," Angel muttered, then added. "I have no way of knowing where he is. He can teleport."

"You said he was human," Buffy frowned, scrambling up the fence.

"Willow's human," Angel countered.

"Point taken," Buffy waited as Angel jumped down off the fence. "Well, if Dawn wants to see this guy again, I'll be there with her to meet him. It's as simple as that." She motioned Angel to continue forward, among the tombs.

"I don't think _either_ of them will appreciate that," Angel muttered.

"Well, that's just too bad," Buffy snapped. "It's my job to protect her. I _will not_ hand her over to some creep who can teleport her who knows where without even _meeting_ him." She rounded a large crypt after Angel to find a man standing beside the vampire.

"Then I believe introductions are in order," the man said. "I am Loki."

"Dawn!" Willow shouted into the night as they wandered among the tombstones.

"Will you stop that," Spike snapped. "She's running _away_ from you. I don't think letting her know you're here is the best idea."

"You haven't lost her, have you?" Xander asked, after Spike had stopped for a moment.

"Course not," he replied. "I know exactly where she is."

"Well?" Giles demanded, glancing back around them, the axe held at the ready.

"I'm trying to decide if I want to lead you to her. She's got one hell of a case for getting the bloody hell away from you people."

"Think of it this way," Giles said calmly. He brought the axe blade to Spike's neck. He blinked, the threat clear.

"Alright, easy," Spike frowned. "Just seein' if she's through runnin', that's all." He took a step back away from the weapon's steel edge and pointed to a crypt to the left. "She's down there, and I bet she knows we're here."

"Dawn!" Willow called, running to the door of the crypt. She slipped through the double doors and hurried down the shallow steps to the main chamber. It was dark, but Willow could see that the chamber was little more than a landing to a flight of stone stairs spiraling down into some basement far below, wrapped in darkness. She looked over the edge of the stairs, cautiously, considering there was no railing, and peered down the central open column to the blackness below. Her eyes then caught sight of the figure sitting on the stairs, staring at the far wall.

"Dawn!" Willow started towards her.

"Go away," Dawn mumbled. Willow stopped.

"Dawn we're all worried about you," she tried but got no response. "Y- you shouldn't believe all that stuff about Specters a- and souls and that.." she began again, sounding very unconvincing in her own ears.

"Just leave me alone. I want to be alone."

Willow, relatively certain that there was no other way out of the crypt than the way she had come in, sighed. "Alright. I'll be outside if you need me."

Dawn brought her knees up to her chest and laid her head across them.

Willow started to leave but then, on an instinct she walked down the few steps and sat beside Dawn. There was no indication at first that Dawn noticed her, so she put an arm around her shoulders. "You know we all love you, right?" There was nothing but sincerity in her voice now.

"It's not about that..." Dawn answered, her face obscured by her long brown hair. "I love you guys too," she said, an edge of desperation in her voice, as if it were very important that Willow understand this.

Will stroked the girl's hair and brushed the strands away from her face. In the dim light she could see that Dawn had been crying. "Why didn't you come to us? Why did you run away?"

Dawn shrugged. "I don't know. It was just a feeling I had. Of where I had to go."

There wasn't much that could be said to that, Willow decided. "Okay, sweetie, I'll be outside if you need me."

Dawn nodded. "Thanks." She wiped her eye and gave a weak smile.

Willow made her way back outside to where the others were waiting. She noted that it was nearly morning. Spike was looking edgy.

"Well?" Xander prompted. "Is she alright?"

"She wants a little alone time," Willow answered. "We should wait till Buffy gets here." But Spike was already heading towards the crypt entrance.

"_Spike_," Willow warned.

"The bloody sun's comin' up," the vampire explained. "You don't want to me to get toasty, do you?" And with that he entered.

He found his way easily in the darkness. "Hey, nibblet," he said casually, appearing interested in the stonework of the walls. "Nice pad you got here," he said.

She managed a small chuckle.

"These steps taken?" he asked, standing near her. She shook her head, saying nothing.

He sat, exhaling and staring with her at the grim wall on the other side.

"You're Loki?" Buffy demanded, her crossbow ready. There was nothing even remotely suspicious about him. That made Buffy very wary. He wore light brown khakis with a white silk shirt, which in itself was evil, but other than that, his brown eyes, his scruffy blond hair and his shadow of a beard made him look like a struggling interior decorator. Buffy guessed his age to be forty one, maybe forty two.

"And you're Buffy Summers," Loki extended a hand. "Your reputation precedes you."

Buffy did not take the proffered hand, but did lower the crossbow. "What exactly do you want with my sister?" Her tone didn't have the same threatening undertones she had tried to include, but his shirt was just so distracting.

Loki took a breath. "Only that she allow me to help her find what she's looking for."

"And what exactly is she looking for?" Buffy inquired.

"Her immortal soul," there was a hint of amusement in the corners of Loki's eyes, enough for Buffy to pick up on.

"Something funny?" She asked, her grip tightening on her weapon.

Angel stepped forward, separating them with his tall form. "No, there's nothing funny," the vampire replied. "Well, we're introduced, now Buffy we should get going-"

"What exactly do you know about Dawn's soul?" Buffy ignored Angel and sidestepped his attempts to shield Loki from her.

"I know everything about Dawn-" Loki began, but Angel interrupted him.

"It's getting late," Angel glanced at the sky, "we should all get inside-"

"How do you know everything about my sister?" Buffy demanded, raising her weapon, circumventing Angel's desperate attempts to intervene.

Over Angel's protests, Loki answered simply, the amusement always present in his eyes. "I created her."

Buffy froze. Angel dropped his hands to his sides and sighed loudly. He glared with irritation at the man beside him. "Yeah, it was a nice harmless little secret we had once..."

"_You made my sister?_" Buffy had lost all feeling in her trigger finger, in all her fingers, so she lowered her weapon as a precaution. There was a fuzz of confusion settling on her mind. This was a monk of Dagon? But he was so... ordinary. Buffy opened her mouth to ask a question, but there was no single one which materialized on her lips. "Wha..?" Was all she managed.

"I was introduced to the Order of Dagon some years back when I was studying inter-dimensional travel, searching for my own soul," he explained. "It came to my attention that there was a way for any old person to travel freely between the realms, so I studied with the monks at their monastery, for six years. They encouraged my interest," he dropped his gaze sadly, "but they never allowed me to use the Key. It was their sacred duty to protect and keep it from the hands of any who would use it, good or otherwise." He looked back up at Buffy, who still had a sort of vague shocked look on her face. "Then, about two years ago, it came to the Order's attention that a hellgod was about, in this realm, looking to get back, searching for the Key. I offered to help the monks and they allowed me access, for the first time," his eyes lit up, "it-" he stopped for a moment, "it was beautiful." He sighed. "So I obtained everything I needed, including your DNA, and created... her." He finished.

"You altered our memories?" Buffy asked, astonished.

"Not quite," he winced, trying to explain, "it was more like I altered history. Altering everyone's memories would have been risky, and difficult. So I just fiddled with the time line a bit."

"And now, coincidentally, you're back to... what? Check up on her?" Buffy was now looking alternately between Angel and Loki.

"No. I'm here to correct what I overlooked then," he said, the amusement leaving him. "I am a Specter," he said confidently. "And one thing about Specters is that we cannot create anything with a soul. Dawn-" he stopped and dropped his gaze again. "Dawn is my daughter."

Buffy raised her eyebrows. What could she say to that? "Does she know?" She asked.

Loki shook his head. "No, and it will stay that way. She will find her soul like anyone else, and then be fully human. I'm just the middle man."

Buffy took a breath, resolved now, calm. Anger bubbled up again and she turned on Angel. "You were just going to keep this from me?" She demanded.

"I- we-" he stammered, backing away.

"I asked him not to tell," Loki intervened. "I didn't want any of you involved. I feel like this is sort of... my project. I started this, and I have to finish this. It is important that she not know of my role in her life. I thought that the fewer people who knew the truth, the less likely it would be that she find out."

This seemed to satisfy the slayer. "So why did you tell me?" She asked, calmly.

"When I looked at you," Loki said at last, "I knew you were her sister. You deserved to know."

Dawn and Spike stood in the basement of the crypt, the darkness all around them. Dawn couldn't pin point what made her choose this crypt, this basement, but she strode forward, to one particular enclave, holding one particular member of this very wealthy, very dead family.

Above the niche upon which lay the dusty bones, was carved,

Winnie Lyleton

1851 - 1923

_Stark and silent, and oft to pray,_

_In deepest thoughts, our lady lay._

_In deepest thoughts_. The phrase dragged itself up from her dream. Slowly, with Spike standing near, she dropped to her knees and peered inside the enclave, past the flattened rib cage, covered in filamentous, dried flesh. At the very back of the shelf, something glinted.

Dawn squinted and reached for it. Her arm was too short. Carefully, to a sound of confusion from Spike, she drew her whole upper body into the niche, coughing slightly at the dust. She grimaced as she reached past the corpse, careful not to touch it, stretching her arm to reach the glinting thing.

_In deepest thoughts, our lady lay_. Dawn's fingers brushed the smooth surface of whatever it was and there was a little jolt of energy. Not unpleasant, but unexpected. Dawn took a deep breath and lunged at it, her fingers closing around what she determined to be an orb of some kind, about the size of a golf ball, made of something like glass. The electricity of the thing stabbed into the muscles of her hand almost immediately, making it impossible to drop it. She ground her teeth, trying to get herself out of the enclave, when a mind-numbing pulse of energy shot through her arm.

Spike's eyes widened as Dawn disappeared in a flash of opalescent light.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

_Now in my corner, I've got the ceiling in my eyes,_

_Arms holding up my knees, and rocking back and forth's my life..._

Dawn became aware that she was on her stomach on a stone floor. She squinted, even before she opened her eyes, wondering, before anything else, where Spike was. Spike. She formed the word on her suddenly dry lips. "Spike," she croaked, rolling onto her back.

Something was wrong. It was too bright in here. As her focus returned, Dawn realized with sinking annoyance more than anything else, that she was not on the floor of the crypt with Spike. The next thing she realized was that there was, however, a vampire leering down at her.

With a yelp, she scrambled back on her hands, finding a wall against which to cower as the vampire straightened. His face reverted to its human form, but he retained his leer.

"Don't worry, pumpkin," he grinned, "if I's wanted to eat kiddies, I's wouldn't be ere." He sat himself down on the stone floor opposite her. "I's here for the same reason's you."

"You're a prisoner?" Dawn asked, her eyes darting frantically around the room for something with which to defend herself. There was nothing. Not a stick of furniture or free lump of stone. The room was completely bare.

"Prisoner?" The vampire laughed. "No, blimey, no!" He chuckled through his thick Cockney accent. "I's was oppin along, mindin me own bloody business, when this bloke, what with a white shirt comes along, pops me on the ead." He made a motion simulating the blow to the head. "So I's wakes up and says to m'self, 'Right Charlie, it's time to off this bugger,' but I's finds m'self ere, with not a drop o' blood in the ole damn place!"

"So you _are_ a prisoner," Dawn concluded.

"Now hang on," Charlie answered, "I's wasn't finished. So I's sits here for weeks on end, not so much as a 'ow d'you do mate?' left ere to rot, I's was. When up come this bloke, what knocked me on the ead, and he says to me 'Right, Charlie, it's been six days, an' you've not ad a drop o' blood. If you can go another five days, I'll give you a soul, and you can eat as many feller's as you like. But if you eat so much as a rat between now an' then, I'll keep the soul, an' cut you into five undred pieces before's I stake you.'" Charlie was quite involved in his retelling of the story. "So I says to m'self, I says 'Charlie, ol' boy, it's painful death or a soul, wha'cha gonna do?' An' it was about that time that the first o' you lot started showin' up." He indicated Dawn's person. "An' let me tell you, I ad a helluva time fightin' off the urge to devour each'n every one've ya. But I did it, and three days ago, I's got m'soul. An' it feels better'n ever. So old bloke he's been kind enough to let me stay, snackin' on pigs n' sheep and whatnot, to train me so's not to eat people."

"Why do you stay?" Dawn asked, feeling somewhat less endangered now that she had heard the story into which Charlie had apparently put a lot of effort.

"Because, pumpkin," he grinned, "now as I've got a soul, if I eat somebody an' old bloke out there ears about it, I'll be dead, but not permanent-like dead, the soul e gave me'll spend eternity in some fire pit."

Dawn was silent for a long moment, which, as Charlie's grin faded, became more and more awkward. "Well," she said at last. "Best of luck with that. I'm totally in support of the vampire-with-a-soul thing," she forced a grin onto her face. There was not a trace of fear left in her as she rested her aching back against the stone wall. Frankly, the novelty of teleportation had worn off a while ago.

"Thanks, pumpkin, I's appreciates at," Charlie's grin returned.

Dawn looked about the room as if for the first time. It was made of rough hewn stone, as if built by not too competent stone masons during a time when creativity went unrewarded. There was a small wooden door at one end of the room and a slit of a window at the other.

Dawn at first wanted to look out the window to see where she was, but decided against it, in favor of resting against the wall.

Hours passed as she drifted in and out of sleep, to the sounds of Charlie alternately whistling off-key to himself, or trying to sing softly, also horribly off-key.

An undetermined amount of time had passed when Dawn shifted onto her left side, pulling her left arm up to cushion her head. She frowned as a slight tingling sensation burned at the crook of her elbow. She sat up and was about to roll up her sleeve when she realized what it was: the scars of her first vampire bite. She rubbed at them absently through her sleeve and laid back down, trying to get comfortable; a difficult task on the uneven stone floor.

Soon, however, it became apparent that no amount of shifting would allow her to ignore the very clear and vivid itch that originated deep inside her elbow. She gripped the arm tightly with her right hand, trying to conceal this from Charlie on the other side of the room, while still trying to get comfortable enough to sleep away her imprisonment.

After about ten minutes, the itching had spread up and down her arm, and was now accompanied by an acute crawling sensation under her skin all over her body. It took her several uneasy minutes to realize what was happening. She was going through withdrawal. She had never really thought about the effects posing as a blood junkie might cause. She certainly never expected this kind of discomfort. She shifted anxiously around, against the wall, finally deciding on a position facing away from Charlie, in case her eyes became bloodshot, she reasoned.

She remained completely motionless for some minutes, at first trying to analyze the effects she was undergoing. Her bones felt too small. her skin felt like it was crawling off her flesh. Her heart became loud in her ears, pattering fast and shallow. Her stomach eventually felt as though it would turn itself inside out.

She was unable to pretend like everything was okay when the shivering started. She sat up again, pulling her sweater tight around her, sinking her neck into her collar, unable to stop the quivering of her muscles. She clenched her jaw tight as the effect reached her teeth. She closed her eyes, miserable.

Dawn huddled there, her knees up to her chest, her arms crossed as though it were twenty degrees below zero. She breathed quickly, her little gasps almost coming in time with the knotting in her stomach; the jerking of her gut. She sat there for endless hours, in her mind, the amazement of the speed at which these symptoms had overcome her now gone completely. She called on every reserve of will to ignore this, to fight it, and finally, to give in to it.

The thought blazed through her mind like a brush-fire. _Ask him. Let him bite you._ Her stomach twisted at the thought. Twisted even more than it was already twisting. Some back corner of her mind squeaked that if he bit her, then these symptoms would come back again in a few days, worse than they were now. That voice was buried by the sudden wave of nausea that washed over her. She doubled over, onto her hands and knees, fighting the urge to dry heave. She could feel the cold sweat on her forehead. She could feel the hand on her shoulder as Charlie said something. Something she couldn't hear through the ringing and pounding in her ears.

"Pumpkin?" His words sounded in agonizing slow motion in her mind, as deep as his voice was, it scored across her eardrum, stabbing into her head like an icepick. She moaned in response.

The thought was still there, dominating all the others. _Ask him. Let him help you._ The thought was so reasonable. So practical. So perfectly sane that Dawn was sure for a moment that this was her conscience speaking, that this was the voice of right and good. Then the squeaking voice in the deeper, darker recesses spoke up again, screaming at her not to do it.

"Charlie," she managed to say through chattering teeth, she had to intentionally slow down the words as they came out of her mouth, "I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

He had pulled her to a sitting position against the wall and was now looking at her intently. "Sure, pumpkin, anythin' to elp. You sick with somethin'?"

"Sort of," she said, nothing but urgency driving her mind. With a pale, clammy, shaking hand, she rolled up her left sleeve to reveal the two small pin pricks. At this moment, the squeaking voice was shrieking as loud as it could for her to stop. She ignored it, concentrating on the delicate operation of phrasing the question to follow. "Could you?" She asked, offering her arm to him. "Would you, please?" she added, an edge of desperation tinting her voice.

Charlie at first looked confused, glancing from her pale sweat covered face to her arm. Then understanding dawned on him and a serious, saddened look filled his eyes. "Oh, now... pumpkin," he began, backing away from her. "You don't really want tha' do you?" He asked.

"I need it," Dawn pleaded. "I'll die if you don't help me. Please!"

"But.. But," Charlie continued, fighting the temptation himself, "but I'm a changed man! I's don't do that no more. Pig's blood's all I'll eat," he explained, weakly.

"Charlie, _please_," Dawn begged, "I'm asking you, please help me. I can't stand this feeling!" She collapsed forward again, supporting herself with one arm, offering the other to him.

Charlie looked like he was in severe pain as he backed away, until he found himself again the wall. "I _can't_," he defended, "if ol' bloke catches me, e'll _kill _me!"

"I'll take responsibility," Dawn gasped through the breath of nausea. "If you don't help me," she croaked, "you'll be killing me."

Charlie thought about this, then started forward. He slowly squatted by the girl who collapsed onto her stomach, her eyes closed. He took her left arm, hesitantly at first, and brought it to his mouth. He inhaled deeply.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Buffy glared at Spike. "You let her get away?" Her words were cold and hard.

"I didn't _let_ her get away," he explained, "she just disappeared, right in front of me. Pearly-lookin' light, then, no Dawn."

"And you checked out the crypt?" Buffy knelt down, examining the alcove wherein the body of Winnie Lyleton rested, in several fragmented pieces.

Giles pondered, rubbing his chin absently. "You said she vanished in a flash of light."

"ts right," Spike nodded. "No hollerin', no boomin' bloody voices, she just reached in and zap."

Giles sighed. "Well. As much as I hate to admit it, this trail seems to have gone cold." He shouldered his cargo bag. "Dawn could be anywhere by now, with the range of teleportation. I suggest we return to Sunnydale and try to narrow down all possible demons associated with this type of capture."

"I think we should stay here," Buffy argued. "Dawn could show up again at any minute, and she might not hang around long."

"Do you know something I don't?" Giles inquired. "There's no reason to believe she'll show here rather than back in Sunnydale."

"He's right, Buff," Xander said quietly. "At least back home we can do something, besides just wait."

"We have something else to do here," Buffy said, the cold anger returning to her eyes. She marched up the stone stairwell to where Angel was standing, just inside the crypt entrance, out of the morning sun.

"Where's Loki?" She demanded.

Angel looked a little taken aback by her aggression. "He said he had to leave, why?"

"And you just let him go?" She said amazed. "Are you some kind of stupid?"

Angel frowned, hurt. "Buffy, Loki had nothing to do with this. He's only trying to help Dawn." His words were filled with the most sincere reason. "He came to you, remember? He told you everything you wanted to know."

Buffy considered this. "You're right," she muttered. "That was pretty convenient, wasn't it?" She turned back to him. "I bet he was distracting me so that Dawn had time to find whatever she found." She glared angrily out the crypt door. "And now's he's got her, and he's gone."

"Buffy stop," Angel calmed. "There is no conspiracy. There's no big plan to take Dawn." He took her by the shoulders. "This is a simple soul quest. He's her guide. And you're getting in the way." He pulled her into a tender hug. "I know you want to protect her. So do I.. But you can't help her with this."

He waited a moment before continuing, feeling the warmth of the Slayer's body pressed against his. "There may be danger." He felt her flinch. "But it's a danger she has to face on her own to succeed." He explained. He pulled her out of the hug to look her sternly in the eyes. "You can't save her every time. Sometimes we all have to save ourselves."

The rest of the gang gathered around them, near the entrance to the crypt, waiting to hear Buffy's decision. She was still the Slayer.

"Let's go home," she said at last. The all started out.

"Um, excuse me," Spike piped up. "I hate to be a wet blanket, but we'll have to wait until sunset." He indicated the sunny day. "Some of us don't have our sun-block."

Angel reached into his coat and retrieved his balaclava, shoving it into the other vampire's chest. "Here. Now go."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Thanks," Spike shrugged, pulling the head garment on. "And you'll just stay here, then? Until dusk?"

"Get out," Angel ordered as the gang waited for Spike outside.

"Right. Cheers."

Dawn awoke with a smile on her face for the first time since her mother had died. The caressing warmth of the vampire's kiss, the burning of the wound, the gentle pressure as he drank. All of it satisfying the horrible craving which had taken hold of her. Dawn moaned blissfully before opening her eyes, trying to shift onto one side.

Her eyes snapped open. She was no longer with Charlie. She was laying atop three broad, upright posts, one supporting her neck, the second under the small of her back, and the third beneath her knees. Her arms were chained out to either side, her wrists hanging from thin iron manacles chained to the ceiling. Her ankles were secured to the post under her knees. She thrashed once, trying to escape, succeeding only in chafing her wrists in the tight bonds. In response to the growing panic in her mind, she was ever thankful that she was still fully clothed. Her breath, nonetheless, quickened nervously; her earlier bliss forgotten.

"You failed the first test," a voice from out of sight informed her, "miserably," it added.

"Who are you?" Dawn asked, finding as she spoke that she was suddenly very lightheaded. She doubted if she could have successfully stood, even if she had not been chained.

"Loki," said the man, walking around her into view. The blond haired man with the white silk shirt pulled deftly at his collar, his expression grim. "I am very disappointed," he said. He sounded genuinely depressed at her failure.

"What test?" Dawn asked, closing her eyes to keep the room from spinning.

"The first test," he answered. "The test of character. Of strength of will. You managed to resist for a mere ninety four minutes before giving in." He turned away from her, shaking his head. "Most disappointing."

Dawn swallowed. It entered into her mind now that she might have forfeited her only chance to find her soul. "Do I get another chance?" She asked, sounding small and slightly desperate.

"Everyone gets another chance," Loki answered. "You have three more tests. If you can't complete the remaining tests, then you don't really care to have a soul." He paced back and forth beside her, his hand to his chin. "It occurs to me that you might have misinterpreted your goal here." Dawn blinked. "You don't have to earn a soul," he explained. "Your soul is your imperishable right. It would be an act of unspeakable evil to withhold yours from you, once you have decided throughout your being that you deserve it. If I were to force the monks of this lamasery to give yours to you right now, it would be irreparably tainted by your failure just now, and you would be a miserable wretch the rest of your life and afterlife." He knelt beside her, delicately putting a hand to her brown hair, tied as it was in a ponytail.

Dawn shifted uncomfortably. His breath was overwhelming and unwelcome. "So what am I doing here?" She shifted her midsection so her tailbone rested on the post, instead of her spine.

"You're going to become clean," Loki answered, gently stroking her hair. He gazed at her hair in a loving, possessive way that Dawn wasn't able to see, without twisting her head. "You're going to remain here until your body has been cleansed of the chemical and psychological need to be fed upon."

"You mean I have to go through... that, again?" She asked, tilting her head to see him.

"You jumped, remember?" Loki said softly. "You were willing to die for your soul. Are you now not willing to live for it?"

Dawn stiffened. "How long?" She asked, stoically.

"As long as it takes," he answered, straightening up. "I'll be here, for someone to talk to, to yell at, to plead with." He took a seat by the door. The room she was in seemed identical to the one she and Charlie had been locked in.

"Where's Charlie?" She asked.

"Dismembered," came the reply. Dawn sagged.

"It was my fault," she said hoarsely. Guilt tore through her every fiber. "I told him to- begged him to. He didn't want to-" she was very nearly on the verge of tears as the remorse for having killed Charlie found her.

"And the pleading begins," Loki sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head against the stone of the wall.

Willow blinked at her computer screen. "Did Angel say he researched this Loki guy?" She rubbed her left eye, fighting off the fatigue. "Cause I just Googled him and all kinds of stuff's been coming up."

"Besides the Norse god of mischief?" Tara asked, laying down her thick volume and approaching Willow's shoulder.

"Yeah, obviously besides him..." Willow scoffed, then tilted her head. "Although..."

Tara smacked her playfully on the shoulder. "This is serious, what did you find?"

"Right," Willow nodded, looking to the report on her screen. "Loki, a.k.a. Logan Kilpatrick, suspect in the nineteen eighty eight murders of Rachel and Hanna Kilpatrick, Logan's wife and daughter." Willow's tone lowered. "He was also suspected of killing his parents, closest relatives, and friends..." Willow frowned, squinting at the text. "It says here that the gruesome and sacrificial nature of the killings indicated profound sadism and possibly devil worship." Willow scoffed. "Devil worship. What do they know?"

"Angel told me that Loki had said his family was killed by a Werlech demon," Buffy rounded the table from which she had risen.

Xander nodded. "And it would be unheard of for a psychopathic serial killer not to fess up for his crime." He received several annoyed glanced. "I'm just saying," he defended, "what would he say if he _were_ guilty?"

"Immediately after the investigation was opened, however," Willow went on, "Logan disappeared and only reappeared in underground organizations of the occult during the last five years." Will scrolled the text up, to reveal a picture of Logan, his blond hair short and combed, his button up dress shirt prim and proper. "Several sightings were reported during the mid ninety's but none were ever confirmed, except to reveal his ties to a network of other disappearances and his acquired name Loki."

"Psychopathic serial killer, tied to a network of disappearances." Buffy repeated. "And I let him have my sister.. Why again?" She turned on Spike, who sat reading a newspaper in the corner of the Magic Box. "To find her soul?" She demanded, anger rising in her voice, effectively covering her guilt and worry.

"Hey, don't look at me," Spike held up his hands defensively. "I had a talk with her and did all I bloody well could to get her to come back with us."

"And yet you're here, and she isn't," Buffy retorted.

"Arguing is solving nothing," Giles announced, loud enough to make Willow jump.

"Hey, guys, l- look at this," Willow enlarged the photograph she had retrieved from the police file. "It's a picture of Logan's daughter, Hanna," she said, an odd mix of emotions in her inflection.

Buffy approached and leaned in close, the picture still only occupying a small part of the screen. Instantly, all color drained from her face.

Giles adjusted his glasses and frowned at the screen, his face similarly taking on a tint of white.

"What are we looking at?" Xander hopped to his feet and marched around the table to the group hunched over the screen.

"Dawn..." Buffy murmured, gazing at the smiling face. There was no question about it. Aside from being a few years younger, the face was identical in every way. All of them could remember a young Dawn at that age, even if those memories were false, they still provided a clear picture, clear enough for everyone to see what was in front of them.

"He created her..." Buffy muttered, slowly taking a seat at the table, staring at nothing as the group continued to examine the picture. "He created her from me, but in the form of his daughter."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"_Bastard!_" Dawn screamed, thrashing in her bonds. "Let me out of here _now!_" She wrenched her wrists painfully around in the manacles. "You don't know what it's like!" She struggled futilely.

Loki sat by the door, rubbing his eyes. She had been screaming and cursing at him for hours. The withdrawal wasn't even close to its peak yet. He had run out of encouragements and calming statements about two hours ago.

"I don't give a _shit _about my soul!" she hollered, glaring at him menacingly. "Let me out of here right now or I swear to God I'll get my sister here to _tear your head off!_" She twisted her fists in the bonds, clenching her jaw as the vicious pain sped down her arms. The nausea and skin crawling was much worse. The chaffing of her flesh was almost a welcome diversion. The room was spinning around her, lazily rocking back and forth. Her skull had tightened until it was constricting her brain to the point where she could barely put coherent sentences together.

Loki sighed, tried and exhausted. Finally, as she called him something only a teenager could think of, he stood, taking a small object from his pocket. "Dawn," he ordered, loudly. "Dawn look at me," he took her chin in his strong hand.

"Fuck you!" She spat, ripping her face away from him to thrash some more. "Let me out of here!"

"Dawn," he said again. "Do your recognize this?" He held up the small glass ball.

Dawn's mind was in a vortex of confusion and hatred. Her eyes focused on the small object. Somewhere, she remembered holding in her fingers.

"This is your quest stone," he explained in slowly and deliberately. "As long as you have it, your quest will continue." He took her jaw firmly between his fingers and pushed his fingertips into her cheeks. She growled as he opened her mouth. He forced the small glass ball between her teeth, ignoring her forced gagging and choking sounds. "Bite down on it," he ordered, and forcibly closed her mouth.

Dawn coughed once, trying to dislodge the thing from below her palate. It's size and shape made it impossible to remove without her hands, effectively gagging her. She shouted something now unintelligible at him, her eyes conveying all the hate she wanted to say, still struggling and twisting in her chains. The sharp pain in her jaw tore all her attention away from her creeping skin and tightening bones. The pounding of her blood in her ears was diminished by the throbbing of her aching jaw, forced open by this foreign object. She lay still, her eyes closed, her teeth bared, the rage in her mind dwindling with no outlet for release. Her breathing slowed and she relaxed her exhausted muscles. Soon unconsciousness took hold of her tortured body again.

Loki sighed and laid back against the wall to get some short rest.

"What do mean he created her?" Tara asked, astounded and confused. "I thought that monks..."

"Are you saying," Giles began equally astounded, but he was cut off by Xander.

"And you were going to keep this from us?" He almost chuckled, but not in humor. "I mean, here we are, doing all this useless research and it was those monks the whole time?" He threw up his hands and closed all the volumes laid out before him, stacking them very deliberately to go retrieve others.

"Yes, er- when exactly were you going to inform us of this little detail?" Giles asked, taking off his glasses to wipe them with a conveniently available handkerchief.

"Wait, wait a minute," Willow cut in, "I thought the monks of Dagon created Dawn. This guy doesn't seem to be the brown robe type."

Buffy sat at the table, under the heat of the inquisition, waiting until they had exhausted themselves with their questions.

Xander reappeared with another volume, slamming it down on the table with all available gusto and irritation. "The Order of Dagon," he read off loudly, then sat down to quietly begin reading.

"Well, this changes everything," Giles said, replacing his spectacles. "Now that we know her creator has recaptured her, we have some motive."

"We do?" Buffy asked, "I was actually kind of relieved to hear he wasn't just some strange Specter who was supposedly out to help."

"Yes, well, under normal circumstances," Giles muttered.

"Wait, hold on," Tara had her hands in the air. "Could somebody please tell me what is going on?"

Giles took a deep breath. "The art of conjuring is not limited to monks of any particular order," he explained. "As Willow's research has shown, he obviously knows quite a bit about the arts in question. What I want to know is what the monks of Dagon could possibly offer him in exchange for his help in concealing the Key."

"Well," Willow said reasonably, "if you were a Specter, what would you want?"

Giles raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "If I were a Specter," he sighed, "well, I'm not sure, actually."

"It's hard to put yourself in the place of a man without a soul, in'it?" Spike said never raising his eyes from the newspaper.

"Well, why don't you enlighten us, then?" Giles said irritated.

"Look, if you're a bloody demon, who hasn't got a soul, then your only priority is to feed, and have loads of fun, am I right?"

Anya nodded. "Yes. If by fun you mean have lots and lots-"

"I think that's what he means," Xander cut her off, looking up from his text.

"Right," Spike continued. "But if you're _not_ a demon. If you're, say, some poor sod who's had his soul surgically removed by, oh, I don't know, a Werlech demon, then your priorities aren't quite the same, are they?"

"I suppose not," Giles admitted.

"Course they're not. Your major priority would be gettin' your soul _back._" He folded his newspaper crisply, then proceeded to concentrate on the next page. "Am I right?"

"So Logan-" Willow began, "Loki, whatever his name is, went to the monks of Dagon, why? How could they help him find his soul?"

Giles and Buffy exchanged a perfectly symmetrical, knowing glance. "The Key," they said in unison.

Willow and Tara exchanged a glance as well. Anya's eyes shifted over Xander as he read silently. "I see," she said loudly and purposefully. "It all makes sense to me now..." Xander did not so much as look up.

"So that would mean..." Buffy pondered, ignoring the vengeance demon, "that the monks would be willing to allow Loki access to the Key, in payment for his help with Glory," she frowned. "And now he has her."

"I- is he going to kill her?" Willow asked, worriedly. "Like in a whole... bloodletting kind of way?"

"I don't think so," Xander spoke up. He held his finger to the page and looked up, a small grin on his face. "We've got precedent."

Dawn's ear rested on the broad rough wood of the post. Her eyes were closed, her face frozen in a look of distant pain.

Loki stroked her hair lovingly. There were moments when he saw his daughter in her face. Of course she looked just like Hanna, but they were not the same person. But there were moments, treasured, precious moments throughout these last years when he had seen flashes of his daughter's laughter, his daughter's wry smile. He blinked away tears as his hand smoothed away a stray lock of brown hair, barely touching this girl's head.

He had sworn to himself, when he made her, not to grow attached to her. He was not to have any contact with her while Glory was after the Key, as he knew her identity. Now Glory was gone and the monks were ever more lax with their rules. Of course, he had no intention of telling her who he was, what she was to him. That would throw all kinds of complications into this. It was best that he remain just her guide. His hand jumped back as she moved her head slightly.

Dawn moaned softly as consciousness grabbed hold of her again. She blinked up at him, unable speak with the ball in her mouth, but revealing no hatred in her eyes. Loki reached down and tugged the gag free. He gently placed it in her hand and closed her fingers around it. He felt her squeeze.

"Loki," she said hoarsely, her breath now quivering and uncertain, "I want to die." Her words were soft as a whisper and her eyes begged him even more than her tone. "I can't do it," she mouthed, closing her eyes again, knowing he would neither release her, nor kill her. Her stomach felt like it was consuming itself. Her gut writhed and strangled itself. Her throat was tight and sore. Her lips and tongue stung from having been exposed to air while the ball was in her mouth. Her muscles trembled, no energy left for thrashing or twisting. Her skin was boiling and churning, covering her bones which felt like they had been replaced by serrated saw blades. And the room; the room spun around and around, screaming its brightness and darkness at her until her eyes throbbed with pain.

Loki wiped a tear as it rolled from the corner of her eye down to the top of her ear. "You're doing great," he whispered, blinking away the sting in his own eyes. "It's almost over."

"Here it is," Xander indicated the paragraph. "See, a few hundred years ago, the monks of Dagon had to conceal the Key from an uber-powerful demon, just like they did from Glory. They created a member of their own order from scratch, pretty much, and had him wander around with them, altering everyone's memories so that none of them knew who it was. Safer, they thought."

"Pretty clever," Willow acknowledged. "Wonder why they didn't do that this time?"

"Well, as it turns out," Xander went on, "the demon figured out what had happened and killed pretty much half the monks. Since none of them, except one who ended up being eaten, knew who was the Key, they all fled and decided to scrap the plan."

"Quitters," Spike muttered, as he read the paper yet listened in on story-time.

"So they devised a way of _extracting_ the entity, that was the Key itself, from the guy who hosted it." Xander read ahead a little bit. "Here we go. They came up with a way to do this de-Keying that wouldn't kill them all."

"What was this method?" Giles asked, trying to tilt his head to read the text Xander had facing him.

"It involved some kind of sacred water. Apparently when the avatar of the Key touched it, the Key was removed, passing into the water."

"And what happened to the host?" Buffy asked quickly.

"Uh..." Xander's finger sped along he page. "Ah, here it- oh."

"Oh?" Buffy repeated. "Oh isn't good. Oh is bad."

"It says here the host 'returned to that from which he was brought forth,'" Xander licked his lips silently and avoided eye contact with the Slayer.

Giles compulsively removed his glasses, intent on cleaning them again, but hesitated and merely rubbed the back of his wrist into his eye. He was at a loss for words.

"Guys, look at this," Willow had returned to her computer. "I've been looking at all reports coinciding with Loki's movements throughout the underground," she said, staring at the screen. "Apparently Loki has a particular monster on conjure-speed-dial."

Buffy stared at the translated headline from an Estonian newspaper.

Seven Ton Spider Wreaks Havoc in Small Community.

The article went on to suggest that the spider's freakishly large size was due to its origin near a poorly managed nuclear power plant. It included, however a relatively clear black and white photo of the creature, connecting the dots in everyone's mind. The creature was eventually killed by a militia armed with RPG's, but not before it had impaled several Estonians with its massive mandibles.

"This just gets better and better," Anya said, tense interest on her face.

"Loki made that thing we killed the other night?" Xander frowned.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Giles held up his hands.

"Oh, yes, let's," Spike put in irritably. "Just this once, let's jump to conclusions." He jumped to his feet to emphasize, throwing his folded paper down on the counter he had been sitting on. "You people are the densest lot I've ever had the misfortune of being associated with." He indicated the computer sharply. "It's not bloody rocket science," he snapped. "He made her, he wanted her, he found her, he took her and none of you did a damn thing about it."

"Why did he make the spider?" Tara asked. "It nearly killed her. He couldn't have wanted that," she frowned, turning to Will, "could he?"

"Course he did!" Spike burst, "would bit have gone looking for him if she hadn't seen the other side?"

"Spike's right," Buffy said slowly.

"As usual," Spike muttered under his breath.

"He's been planning this," the realization dawned on the Slayer, forcing her to sit down again. "Ever since... since when? Since he created her?"

"Most likely," Giles nodded. "If his goal is to acquire the Key, he would have designed all of this when he created Dawn."

"Then there's nothing we can do," Buffy said, her voice devoid of any emotion. She had closed off her feelings. She remembered clearly what had happened when Dawn had been abducted by Glory. She had shut down, become a useless burden to her friends as they searched relentlessly. She stared, blankly at the wall. She blinked, shrinking in on herself. She had failed again. Angel was wrong. It wasn't that she couldn't save her every time; she couldn't ever save her.

"Wait," Xander said quickly, getting a sense of the lethal lethargy that was settling down on the room like a thick mud. "It says here that these monks established a hideaway in the steps of a mighty mountain range. There's no mention of any other location they might be," he said hopefully. "So they might be there," he concluded.

"What mountains are these?" Giles said, his voice lacking any trace of hope.

"The--- Himalayas," Xander said reasonably. "But it says that the monks who performed the extraction some odd hundreds of years ago came here to do it."

"Loki might have taken her there to perform the ritual," Willow suggested, looking at Buffy worriedly as she stared blankly at the wall.

"Even if that's true, we have no way of-" she began, then a thought flashed behind her eyes. She jumped to her feet, making a beeline for the Magic Box telephone. "Will, you and Tara get to work on a locator spell, I need to know where to land the helicopter," she said hastily, punching in the numbers.

Xander frowned. "What helicopt-"

"Hello?" Buffy said intently into the telephone receiver. "Rico's Flower Shop? Yes, I need you to tell Agent Finn that I need a helicopter here tonight. Here? Sunnydale... California. Yes. No, Finn is his _last_ name. Thanks."

Dawn awoke with more inner peace than she had ever recalled feeling. The bliss of the fix now seemed hollow and dirty. She realized that she was in fact laying on her side on a mat on the stone floor. She took a deep breath, her face etched with the lines of exhaustion and anguish, but softened again by rest.

"Congratulations," Loki smiled down at her. "You passed."

"That was a test?" Dawn asked, sitting up, stretching her bones, which now felt proportionately right.

"A test of endurance," he nodded.

"How could I have passed?" She asked sullenly. "I wanted to die. You heard me."

"But look," he indicated her hand. It was still tightly grasping the small glass ball that had been placed there. "You never let go of your quest," he smiled as she examined the small decoration. "Even in darkest despair."

She looked up at him and his smile lessened, she looked so much like Hanna...

"Thank you," she said, her face showing the shadow of sincere gratitude. "Thank you," she repeated, closing her fingers around the glass object.

Loki sighed, straightening up. "Rest for the rest of the day. I promise, no more tests until tomorrow."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"Buffy," Willow frowned, "we still can't seem to find her with this locating spell." The array of items spread across the table, all conducive to locating Dawn, surrounded a map of the Himalayas.

"So teleportation is definitively out," Tara concluded, "we wouldn't want to find ourselves a week's walk from anywhere. Or... climb."

"I thought so," Buffy nodded. "Logan wouldn't have brought her there unless he thought he could keep her hidden." She sighed, crossing her arms. There was almost no trace of the despair she had felt earlier showing on her face. This Slayer had a plan. "If Riley comes through, then we have transport to L.A. by midnight and then to Tibet..." She thought about this for less than a second under the uncertain gazes of the others. "He'll come through."

"Even if he does, it might take a day or more of flyovers to locate the monastery," Giles put in, "but from what I've been reading about this sacred water ritual they use, it takes days to prepare. We may still have time to prevent him from doing... whatever he intends to do."

"I've always wanted to go to Tibet," Xander grinned.

"Uh, fellas?" Spike was standing, looking out the window. "Whoever said this Logan bloke had this whole thing planned down to a T," he pointed out the window, "wasn't lying."

Three monstrously large creatures, all resembling tarantulas lumbered down the street. The sun was just going down, darkening everything to black and white. The scene outside of people scattering and spiders feeding looked like some cheesy fifties horror flic. The longer Spike watched, the more amused he became, laughing once as a car swerved to avoid the havoc.

His laugh jogged everyone out of their amazement, sending them running for the weapons. "This is exactly what we _don't_ need," Buffy muttered, grabbing a large axe from the weapons chest.

"I think that's the point," Xander added, hefting his sword. "We're going to have pull a fast one on Mr. Nostradamus to even get a chance to find Dawn."

"I think we've got something he didn't count on," Giles came in from the back.

"What's that?" Willow asked, slinging a crossbow over her shoulder.

"We've got his plan."

Xander paused. "Uh, sorry, how does that help us?"

Giles slung the heavy broad sword through the air. "He's counting on us being distracted by these creatures," he explained. "That means he hasn't completed the ritual yet, and perhaps hasn't even started. He's afraid we'll figure out what he's up to, so he's thrown these creatures at us, counting on the fact that we'll stay here to protect Sunnydale."

"Are you saying we shouldn't?" Xander responded.

Anya's attention perked up from behind the Magic Box counter. "I think we _should_ stay... to protect consumerism if nothing else."

"_We_ should," Giles nodded, then pointedly turned his gaze on Buffy.

"I'll go alone," she concluded, lowering her axe.

"We can take care of the creepy crawlies," Xander assured her.

Buffy looked out to the door, then to the smiling face on the computer screen. They could see she was torn. Xander and Giles exchanged glances, but only for an instant, then they both dashed out the door, following Spike who was already goading on one of the terrifying arachnids.

"Well," Buffy shrugged, "I've at least got till midnight to kick some spider thorax," she lifted her axe to complete the pun. With no response, she left Willow, Anya and Tara by the computer.

"Oooh, look at our big strong men folk," Willow said in an awed voice.

"And to a lesser extent, at Xander," Anya added. She then snatched a scythe and followed them.

Willow and Tara looked out the window, admiring the tenacity with which the brave of heart and foolish of mind surrounded and heckled the giant spiders, all patiently awaiting Buffy who proceeded to do away with them, one by one, as she had done their predecessor.

"You know," Tara said as the small crowd of warriors scattered, a spider charging through their midst, "someone should really wait here, in case Riley calls back."

"I think you're absolutely right," Willow agreed, setting her crossbow down and taking her still warm seat at the computer. "And who knows what useful piece of information is just waiting to be discovered?"

"Exactly," Tara agreed, settling down in front of one of the volumes. "It's not like they can't take care of themselves."

"Far from it," Willow added. There was a long pause. "Plus I hate spiders," she said casually.

"Naturally," Tara agreed. "Anyone with any sense hates spiders."

The sun had just risen over the Qingzang Plateau when Dawn was awoken by a gently shaken shoulder. She blinked quietly and looked up from her sleeping mat, expecting to see Loki looking down at her. Instead, she faced the quietly pleasant face of a monk.

"Miss Dawn," he said, almost as a whisper. "It is time to get up."

Without a word, she did, realizing that she hadn't changed her clothes for at least two days. She opened her mouth to say something, but the monk laid out a pair of rough trousers, a plain white tunic and a red burlap robe like the one he wore, by the doorway to the room's head.

He then walked to the door, turned, bowed low, and exited, locking the door behind him.

Dawn sighed and proceeded to change into the trousers and tunic, leaving the robe where it lay. It looked too ceremonial for her tastes, and she did not cherish the memory of the occasion when she had last donned a ceremonial garment.

Soon she was dressed and prepared for whatever the day had in store for her, though, she thought, how anyone could have been prepared for anything that had happened to her this week was a mystery. She stood for a moment or two staring out the small window which overlooked an admittedly breathtaking mountain scape and for an instant she couldn't help but see how much she must look like a damsel in distress locked in a faraway castle... Her eyes slowly dropped from the stunning view and she turned from the window, in her heart knowing no prince was coming. She had locked herself in this tower. She sat cross-legged on her sleeping mat, holding the small sphere she had been given, almost jokingly in accidental mockery of the monks who most certainly meditated not far away. Dawn could hear their low chanting if she listened hard enough. As hard as she tried, she couldn't seem to find the ability to laugh. Nor, however, could she cry. She conjured in her mind the face of Joyce, a face that for the past year and a half had brought tears to her eyes and knots to her throat. Today she felt nothing. Sadness for sure, longing, but no sense-shattering sorrow. She though of Buffy. Of her sister's death. It was now more of an oddity, the fact that she had grieved, as many spectators to her life had said she would, and then had found her sister alive again, and supposedly everything was normal. Her sadness was something she felt should be forgotten. It was not, of course, but the tragedy of the entire situation, now from Dawn's renewed point of view, seemed quite moot.

So she sat, cross-legged on her sleeping mat, oblivious to the resounding inner peace she had unknowingly encountered in this place. Soon, however, the monk returned, rapping on the door, of course, before entering. Again he bowed low and gestured her out of her room.

"Loki has called for you," he said simply.

Dawn stood with a small sense of trepidation, but almost a tenfold feeling of confidence in this man who had seen her at her worst and called on her still. She strode out of the stone room, the chanting of the monks immediately redoubling in volume as she crossed the threshold.

The two walked, the monk in front, Dawn behind, down a relatively broad stone corridor to an impressively open main hall.

There was only one piece of furniture in this hall, at its far end; a roughly fashioned work bench, upon which was strewn a red cloth, the same color as the robes the monks wore. Sitting on top of this was a broad, deep urn, dark jade in color, its contents invisible from where Dawn was passing.

The monk led her down another corridor, identical to the one from which they had just emerged, to meet Loki, forever wearing his khakis and silk shirt.

"Good morning," Loki smiled. He held out his hand.

Without hesitation, Dawn placed the small sphere she had been carrying into his palm. He tucked the ball in a small leather pouch and secured the open end with a leather tie. He sighed, approaching the door to his left, which looked identical to all the other wooden doors they had passed on their journey down these halls. He opened the door a crack, tossing the small pouch inside. There was a brief moment before it made a thunk on the stone of the floor, obviously a little ways below the doorsill.

"Now," Loki explained. "I have explained to you that your quest stone is the most important object in your universe. As long as you have it, your goal is still within your grasp. This is your test of bravery," he announced. "Go and get your stone."

Dawn braced herself for whatever lay behind the wooden door. She took a deep breath, marching solemnly forwards, taking a firm grasp of the door latch. Lifting it and pulling the door ajar, she looked down the flight of stone stairs to where her quest stone lay. Between three of the legs of a giant spider. As she stepped into the room at the top of the stairs, her eyes were wide, her mind racing. The door closed behind her with a hollow boom.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Buffy drove the axe hard down into the spider's face. It hissed and spat, shivering sideways before succumbing. No matter how fast she killed them, Buffy thought, another one emerged from an alley or charged around the street corner. Eventually, she would run out of stamina, or luck, and one would sting her, or eviscerate her. And come midnight-

Her thoughts were cut short by the _whump-whump_ of helicopter rotors. She turned to see a black chopper emerge from the black of the night. She frowned and glanced at her watch. Five to eleven. Suddenly a bright light from the side of landing gear lit her up and she blinked rapidly.

The relatively small craft set down on the darkened street near an overturned police car. The police had given up hours ago, waiting for military reinforcements. Quitters. Buffy dashed over a tangle of legs to the side of the chopper. Anya was close behind.

"You call for a ride?" a voice shouted from inside, trying to overpower the roar of the engine. Buffy took the hand that was offered to her jumped inside, her eyes blinking away the after-image of the search light and focusing on the man before her.

"_Angel?_" She frowned in surprise and a little suspicion.

The vampire cocked his head in a little shrug. "Captain America sends his compliments, and his chopper, but I think you'll need more than that to find Loki."

She squeezed the hand she still held firmly and drew him closer to be sure she was heard over the whipping rotors. Her eyes were hard and her tone was stern. "Are you here to help me or slow me down?" She could see in his eyes he was hurt - hell, so was she, to have to talk to him like this. But how could she trust him? He who had handed her sister over? How could she trust anyone?

"I'm here to help," Angel said just as sincerely, his eyes locked with hers as the chopper rose from the ground. "We _will_ find her."

"_That's_ their mode of transportation?" Anya said in disappointment, indicating with her scythe the small vehicle just starting to lift off. "I've seen decomposition that's faster than that." She sighed. "I might as well just go get her myself!" Anya huffed and disappeared, utilizing her own specialized demonic teleportation ability.

Xander lifted his sword from the spider corpse and glanced over at Giles. "She doesn't need to know where she's going?"

Giles removed his own weapon with a furious tug. "Apparently not."

"Filed under 'Things that would have been helpful to know earlier,'" Xander shook his head.

The helicopter slid away into the night, the reverberating hum of the engine fading fast as it sped towards the airport.

Anya fizzled back into reality in a dark stone room whose only light was a single slit window. Her first thought was that she hadn't in fact gone anywhere. She stood near a spider as she had near the disappointingly mediocre chopper. The second thought was that Dawn was shouting something at her.

Anya turned to see that the spider she had dismissed was in fact quite alive, and quite attacking. She jumped to one side, avoiding the mandibles, bringing her scythe point down into one of its larger eyes.

It gave the expected hiss, and wrapped a hairy leg around her, bringing her uncomfortably close to its jaws. "Son of a bitch!" She shouted quite loudly.

Dawn glanced nervously over her shoulder and added in a good approximation of Anya's voice: "Damn it! This is impossible!" She hoped neither Loki nor the monk would check in on her.

Loki frowned and glanced back at the wooden door. Dawn's frustration was evident. He shook his head, hearing nothing further, and continued with the monk.

"There are many kinds of bravery," he was saying. "In this case, I obviously don't expect the girl to take on the spider single handedly. The courage that's being tested is the courage to stand up to the test." The monk was nodding. "When she comes back out without the stone, she will have to say to me that she was unable to get it. The test requires her to challenge my own faith in her abilities. She must come to the conclusion that the test is unfair, and be brave enough to confront me about it."

"How is failure achieved in this instance?" The monk asked, nearly no emotion heard in his voice.

"The longer it takes her to realize she cannot win, the harder it will be to confront me about it." There was nothing but logic in Loki's voice. "If she waits too long, she will have accepted that she has failed and will therefore have done so. She will have forfeited the inner strength required to possess a soul, in her mind. Her quest will be over."

Anya, meanwhile, had hooked the scythe under the creature's chin and had ruptured its circulatory system. A black ooze flowed out across the floor. The spider screamed a weak, but very high pitch scream and released her, launching itself back against the far wall and curling up into a protective ball of legs and eyes.

Anya stumbled back, her heel catching on something on the uneven stone floor, nearly causing her to fall.

Dawn rushed down the stairs and took Anya by the arm, at the same time snatching the small object the vengeance demon had nearly tripped over. When they were both safely back atop the staircase, Dawn clutching the small leather pouch and Anya clutching her trusty weapon of pain, Dawn turned on Anya.

"What are you doing here?" There was an obvious amount of anger in her voice.

"I don't know," Anya answered bluntly, "I had intended to appear in the front hall."

"I don't want help," she snapped. "I have to do this myself."

Anya glanced down at the spider. "Do what? Be eaten?"

"Get this," Dawn held out the stone she had removed from the pouch.

"I don't think you ever would have gotten it," Anya said skeptically. "Not in this life anyway. Large spiders seem to think you taste good."

"Can you leave now?" Dawn asked irritated, a slight amount of urgency in her voice as she glanced over her shoulder at the closed door.

"But we have new information-" Anya began.

"I don't care!" Dawn hissed, trying to keep her voice low. "Just get out. I don't want or need protection. Not here, not now." There was a pause. "Go!" Dawn ordered.

Anya threw up her hands. "Fine!" She turned away from Dawn, crossing her arms. "Ingrateful little runaway-" and she vanished again from the dungeon.

Dawn sighed in relief, clutching the pouch tightly. She took a breath, waited another few heartbeats, then pushed the door open, the light of the corridor flooding the room and evoking a small whine from the injured spider.

Dawn strode out into the hall, presenting the sphere before her. She noted the stifled expressions of awe on the faces of both the monk and Loki. "Did I pass?" She asked, a little worry entering her mind. Why were they so shocked?

Loki exchanged a long stare with the monk, then turned back to Dawn, placing a hand on her shoulder, then turning her slightly to examine her garb, to see if she had been wounded. "Uh, yes, you have passed the Third Test," he said at last. "Now, uh, you may return to your room to rest until the final test tonight."

Dawn nodded, tucking the stone back into the pouch. She followed the same route back to her room that she remembered, the monk remaining with Loki.

As soon as she was gone, Loki and the monk rushed to the door, pulling it open, their eyes widening at the scene below. The scene was only improved by the slight moan of the spider as the light from the corridor spread across its curled up body. The pool of black ooze was ever-widening.

Loki looked from the monk to the spider to back down the hall in the direction Dawn had headed, then looked back to the monk. He shook his head in amazement.

"That's _some_ kind of bravery," he said. "Though I wouldn't have thought I could possibly have underestimated her."

"She is unpredictable," the monk replied. "More so than we expected."

Loki raised an eyebrow at this paradox, but then he smiled as it seemed to please him. "More unpredictable than expected, I like that."

Anya reappeared on the street, just in time to duck another spider charge, bringing her scythe to its throat the same way she had the last one. "-unaway," she finished.

Xander grabbed her by the forearm. "We need to have a talk about relevant information you need to contribute."

"But the spiders," Anya protested.

"The fun can wait," he snapped, and pulled her into the Magic Box.

Buffy and Angel spent most of the plane ride in silence. Buffy, still trying to stoke the anger she felt for Angel for just general incompetence with regards to his associates and especially her sister's safety, while Angel was harboring some slight resentment at being the scapegoat for this entire fiasco. He maintained that there had been nothing in any ancient text about Loki, and therefore he had been deemed safe.

They landed in Chamdo, Tibet, without incident, at nearly eleven in the morning local time. The local airport service charged a hefty sum to safely unload the chopper from the cargo hold, irking Angel just a little bit more as he pulled out his credit card. Buffy merely grinned.

Her grin soon disappeared, however, as the two of them and their pilot began flying passes over the snowy peaks of the Himalayas, the dizzying drops and mind-bending scales making her Slayer stomach a little queasy.

It was not until the sun was turning the sky red that they approached what looked like a Buddhist lamasery. There was a broad stone terrace at the bottom of an insanely high array of steps, leading up to the narrow building set into the mountain's overhang.

"There's no other place to land," the pilot shouted over his radio to Angel. The sky was already a dark blue, the steps looking more like a dark stone ramp without the contrast of the sun's rays.

"Alright, right here then," Angel nodded.

It was not until they had actually set down that the scale of the terrace and steps was cemented in Buffy's mind. There had to be at least two thousand steps.

"I hate Buddhism," she muttered and leapt from the chopper, racing up the steps as fast as her Slayer's legs would carry her.

Angel sprinted after.

Dawn had just gotten to sleep when the polite knock came at her door. She sat up and then stood as the monk entered, bowing low and ushering her out.

Dawn took a step, then turned and grabbed the leather pouch from her sleeping mat. She hurried out after the monk as he took her down the corridor again.

The chanting of the other monks was as loud as before, but this time it was getting stronger the closer they got to the main hall. Dawn stopped short of entering it at the sight of the fifty sitting monks all droning the one long syllable. The hum resonated off the inside of the stone walls, making her jaw chatter.

The monk led her through the rows of cross-legged cantors to the front of the room, by a set of wooden double doors, which was presumably the exit. There was now a mat under the rough table there, and the instant she set foot on it, the tone of the chanting rose. Dawn worked her jaw, as the tone of the chanting seemed to penetrate past her ears into her skull.

Loki turned. He stood behind the table, wearing his standard outfit, with a tasseled rope draped around his neck, hanging from his shoulders. The rope was gold in color, and of course it clashed with everything else he wore. It did, however, match nearly perfectly with the golden blond of his hair.

"Dawn Summers," he began, his voice at a pitch such that he did not have to raise his voice above the chanting to be heard. "You have proven to yourself all that you can be." He did not look her in the eyes, but focused, very ceremonially, on some point at the back of the room. He held out his hand to her.

She retrieved the small glass sphere and placed it in his palm, wondering what on Earth the Fourth Test could be. She surreptitiously leaned forward to see what was in the urn, but at that instant, the tone of the droning increased again, all as one. Dawn quickly aborted her reconnaissance and looked around her, to see what might be going on.

Loki held the ball above his head, then joined in the droning of the monks. He slowly brought the small glass ball down to the urn and dropped it in. There was a plunk and then the sound of glass hitting the bottom of the urn. Dawn knew immediately the urn was filled with water.

"Place your hand in the water," Loki advised, "and your soul will be yours."

There was a moment of hesitation. What happened to the Fourth Test, she was about to ask, but the stern look in her guide's eyes told her she had better not. It must have been something to do with her having mysteriously killed the spider. Did he no longer trust her?

Dawn reached forward, bringing her hand over the mouth of the urn. She felt an electric hum move up her arm to the elbow. It was warm and almost pleasant. But she knew where she had felt it before. If she had looked, she would have seen a slight crackling green jumping between her fingers as she reached over the urn. This did not bother her, however, as she did not know anything about the soul incarnation process anyway.

It seemed fitting, Dawn thought, that the companion she had harbored like a hitchhiker, but that for so long had defined her existence, was here to see her completed. Perhaps it would leave her, returning to whatever state it had occupied before she had been created...

_Anything to make me normal_, the thought sliced across her thoughts as if it had been waiting this whole week to make itself known. Was that why she was doing this? To be like the others? For the peace of mind of knowing she would join Buffy and Joyce when the time came? That was it. To get rid of the loneliness. To quit wandering through the woods alone and step onto the path with everyone else. Though maybe there was no path. Maybe it was just a horizon.

Maybe everyone would understand her after this. Maybe, she thought again, she would understand the others a little better. Maybe, just maybe, it would all make a little more sense.

It certainly seemed to in Spike's case. And Angel-

The double doors burst in and Angel and Buffy charged through, sword and crossbow in hand.

Dammit, Dawn cursed in her mind. The worst possible time.

"Dawn, don't touch that!" Buffy shouted over the humming of the monks, which had reached a height of urgency in tone.

"Welcome, Buffy Summers," Loki turned and smiled. "You will not need those," he indicated their raised weapons. "All who come here are peaceful. We will not resist you."

"Good, then the three of us will be going," Buffy started forward, but stopped at Loki's raised hand.

"The choice remains Dawn's," he said simply. The three of then turned to look at Dawn, whose hand was already into the mouth of the urn, her electrically humming hand near the water's surface.

"Dawn," Buffy said slowly and deliberately. "Take your hand out of the jar."

Loki simply blinked at Dawn, waiting to see how she would react. "Your soul is ready for you," he whispered.

"Dawnie," Buffy used her sister's childhood name, one which engendered trust. "Listen to me. This man is not who he says he is."

"I am your guide," Loki responded.

Dawn hesitated, her hand almost vibrating with the hum of the Key and the droning of the chant.

"His name," Angel began, "is Logan Kilpatrick. He murdered his family and friends. His wife and daughter."

"That is what the police concluded," Loki answered. "They didn't have the Werlech demon's finger prints." He kept his distance from the table, but offered his hands in peace. "Dawn, I told you my story. I told you what happened. They're not trying to hurt you, but they're confused. They've been reading incorrect information."

"Dawn," Buffy pleaded. "The spider was his. He conjured it. He's made others. They've killed dozens. There are half a dozen of them running around Sunnydale right now."

"All designed to bring you to this moment," Loki said calmly. His words made so much sense in Dawn's mind. "You understand," it was a statement. Loki raised an eyebrow. "This is the Fourth Test. A test of faith."

Dawn's hand paused as she began to withdraw it from the urn. Her fingers were now visibly crackling with green energy, sending warmth up to her shoulder.

"Do you believe," Loki went on, "in your heart of hearts that this is right for you? Do you believe you deserve it?"

"It's not about that," Buffy argued, keeping her voice sensible in the face of Logan's infuriatingly logical note. "This has nothing to do with your soul," she said desperately. "He's your creator," she immediately regretted saying that.

Dawn's brow furrowed. She looked quickly to Loki, betrayal on her face.

"It's true," he said slowly, a distant look of regret on his face. "I am your... father, I suppose. I created you to be all that you could be. You have never disappointed me. I saw, however, that I had neglected to give you something very, very special."

Dawn's eyes were filled with tears. She was listening to Loki, to his calm and reasonable voice, but she was looking at her sister. Her hand was nearly out of the urn.

"Now you have a chance; one chance to reclaim that which by rights is yours," Loki said, passionately closing his fist. "If you want it."

Dawn dropped her gaze, feeling the sting of a tear rolling down her cheek. She had not been able to cry since the withdrawal, seeming now like aeons ago. She looked up to Loki, the man who had stayed with her through her pain.

"I want it," she said and dove her hand back into the urn.

"Wait," Buffy cried, "if you touch that water," she took a desperate step forward, now she was as near the table as Logan, "if you touch it," she said again, "I'll lose you forever." Tears were building up in her own eyes as she reached out her hands to her sister.

Dawn stopped, the inside of the jug radiating the beautiful green light of her hand. It was just millimeters above the surface of the fluid.

"It will erase you," Buffy said hoarsely. "Take you away, as if you never were," a tear fell loose from her lash and landed on her blouse. "He wants the Key, Dawn," she whispered. "He wants to use it to find his own soul."

Dawn's wet eyes shifted to Loki, an honest look of concern on her face.

Loki had for once pulled his eyes off of the likeness of his daughter and focused them now squarely on the Slayer beside him. He shook his head once, almost as in disbelief. "Don't you think I wouldn't kill a thousand innocents if it meant I could see Hanna again?" He spoke to Buffy, not Dawn. "Don't you think I haven't tried?" There were tears building in his own eyes now, as he showed more emotion than he had ever before.

Dawn looked down from his face to her hand in the urn, the energy crackling between her fingers as the Key prepared for what was to come next.

"I've been preparing for this moment, planning it down to its last second for decades. I've given Dawn to you," he said bitterly, "and you've given her a life of neglect and sorrow. Now I've taken her back, and given her everything she needs to make the decision that's right for her." He turned back to Dawn. "If you want everything that's been driving you crazy for the last two years of your life to make sense, to come together in your heart, then you know what you have to do." He took a step forward himself. "If you want to know, really _know_ that when your time comes, at the end of a long life, you'll be in that place, with your mother and sister, and everyone you've ever loved: Then you know what you have to do." He continued on, regardless of the tear which rolled down his cheek. "If you want to have what I'll never have, what my daughter never had; the peace of spirit that comes with just _knowing_," he brought his clenched fist to his heart, "then you know what you have to do."

Dawn blinked away the sting as more tears wet her face. She looked back to Buffy.

Buffy wore the expression of deepest sorrow. One that Dawn had only seen once. Dawn had not been present when her sister had discovered Joyce, but she had been present when Joyce had nearly been brought back to life. She had been present and had seen that look. Buffy's face was stained with as many tears as it had been then, as her sister's was now. Buffy hugged her arms across her chest and whispered, almost inaudibly through the chant of the monks, "I don't want to lose you."

Dawn's hand rested above the water, the moment in her mind stretching out into infinity. The crackle of the energy across her hand, between her knuckles. The unending, unchanging hum of the combined voice of the monks. The sting of the tears as they dried on her cheeks.

Her eyes moved up one last time from the mouth of the urn, settling between her sister and her guide. A monk stood to either side of Angel, making certain he made no false moves, considering his armament. Her eyes moved to the face of the one. Her heart stopped. Charlie. Her hand tensed, her decision made.

The End


End file.
